I/ 


From  an  A- 


Presentee 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

SECTION 

books  issue'  GIFT  OF 

Legislature 

j£*haiiT\  California  ^tate  Library 

1     jree  timfc.  j 
warrant  in 
State,  forf;* 
such  memi 
him, and  b 

SEC.  15. 

Legislature  and   its  officers  during  tne  session  ui  n.c  *<.- 
time  by  the  Governor  and  the  officers  of  the   Executive   Department  of 
this  State  who  are  required  to  keep  their  offices  at  the  seat  of  government, 
the  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  Attorney-General  and  the  Tru.l 
of  the  Library. 


Ibrary, 


of  all 

of  the 

ession. 

ibrary, 

jibrary, 

sue  his 

of  this 

ed   that 

•rary  by 

tise. 
3  of  the 
it  at  any 


COMPENSATION 


OR 


ALWAYS    A   FUTURE. 


BY 
ANNE   M.  H.  BREWSTER. 


"In  the  pleasant  orcharjfacloses, 

'God  bless  all  our  Qmis,'  say  we; 
But,  '  May  God  bless  all  our  losses  !' 

Better  suits  with  our  degree. 
Listen,  gentle — ay,  and  simple  ! — 
Listen,  children  on  the  knee !" 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


SECOND    EDITION 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J.   B.    LIPPING  OTT    &    CO. 

18  TO. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT    &    CO., 

In  tho  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PS 

/'/•».  a 


PKEFACE. 


I  SHOULD  have  no  need  to  write  a  preface,  if  I  had  not  some 
explanations  to  make  to  my  musical  reader.  The  counsels  to 
teachers,  and  the  analytical  descriptions  of  some  of  the  composi 
tions  of  those  great  masters,  Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  Chopin, 
which  this  book  contains,  are  not  given  presumptuously  on  my 
own  opinion  solely.  Although  I  have  enjoyed  valuable  oppor 
tunities  of  musical  culture,  not  only  from  artists  as  masters,  but 
from  artists  as  friends,  having  listened  to  fine  instrumentalists  in 
their  hours  of  leisure,  and  thus  formed  my  taste  and  opinions  ;  I 
have  also  studied  very  closely  the  writings  of  those  excellent  crit 
ical  authors,  Berlioz,  De  Lenz,  Oulibischeff,  Liszt,  Scudo,  and 
others.  I  am  sorry  we  have  not  such  writers  on  musical  aesthetics 
in  English  ;  and  still  more  sorry  that  translations  of  their  mas 
terly  works,  so  useful  to  the  musical  student,  could  not  be  given 
to  the  public.  But  after  seeing  a  cultivated  woman  spend  her 
time  in  translating  that  exquisite  and  difficult  book,  "Liszt's 
Chopin,"  just  for  the  pure  love  of  art,  with  the  hope  of  being  use 
ful  to  the  musical  scholar,  and  then  knowing  that  her  fine,  con 
scientious  translation  traveled  from  publisher  to  publisher,  each 
one  shrugging  his  shoulders,  saying,  "  the  book  is  clever,  but  will 
not  sell,"  I  thought  it  would  be  labor  lost  to  give  the  time  I  have 
devoted  to  the  construction  of  this  book  to  the  translation  of  even 
one  of  those  valuable  works  ;  but,  wherever  I  could  use  their  ex 
cellent  counsel,  or  give  their  technical  analysis,  I  have  done  so. 
To  Berlioz,  De  Lenz,  and  Liszt,  particularly,  I  refer  my  readers, 
that  they  may  see  how  useful  such  works  are  to  the  musical  stu 
dent. 

I  wish  I  could  now  mention  also  my  artist  friends,  in  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  valuable  service  they  have  rendered  me,  but  I 

(iii) 


iv  PREFACE. 

cannot  with  delicacy.  However,  those  of  them  whose  characters 
and  genius  have  served  me  as  originals — as  life-studies  for  the 
artists,  which  I  have,  with  my  weak  pencil,  striven  to  paint  here 
in  my  book — are  not  only  gifted,  but  young  ;  the  artist  world  may 
yet  hear  of  them  ;  and  as  great  a  future  may  be  before  them  as 
I  have,  in  my  fiction,  given  to  Marie  Merle,  Ehrenherz,  and 
Henzler. 

And  now,  a  word  for  my  poor  little  fiction  itself.     Mrs.  Norton 
sang,  to  an  ugly  child, — 

"  The  loved  are  lovely,  so  thou  art  to  me, 
Child,  in  whose  face  strange  eyes  no  beauty  see." 

And  thus  I  feel  toward  this  little  book.  I  commenced  it  at  a  sea 
son  of  great  sadness — at  a  period  when  the  very  ground  on  which 
I  stood  seemed  reeling.  Old  ties  were  rent  asunder,  old  faiths, 
old  hopes  ;  all  I  had  lived,  loved,  and  prayed  for,  swept  from  me ; 
links  severed,  never  to  be  clasped  together  in  this  state  of  being. 
To  keep  my  sorrow  from  feeding  on  me,  I  gave  my  "  serpent  a 
file."  The  world  has  nothing  to  do  with  all  this;  but  my  little 
public  may  look  more  favorably  on  my  book-child  when  they 
know  what  an  angel  of  blessing  it  has  proved  to  me.  It  has  done 
its  duty  woll ;  it  has  cheered  me  when  hopeless ;  given  me  fresh 
spring  and  impulse  when  failing  health  and  morbid  spirits  refused 
their  aid.  Now  its  work  is  finished  with  me.  It  will  go  out  into 
the  world  to  take  its  chance  by  the  side  of  lovelier  and  cleverer 
ones.  I  have  done  all  I  can  for  it  in  return  for  its  good  done  to 
me.  1  am  only  sorry  that  my  doing  has  been  so  weak. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Good-by 9 


CHAPTER  II. 
My  New  Home 15 

CHAPTER  III. 
The  Family 22 

CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Bise 37 

CHAPTER  V. 
My  Novel 53 

CHAPTER  VI. 
New  Acquaintances 61 

X, 

CHAPTER  VII. 

My  First  Visit  to  Marie  Merle 76 

1*  (v) 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEE  VIII. 
Tantc  Octavie 


CHAPTEK  IX. 
The  Concert 100 

CHAPTEK  X. 
LesCretes 114 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Holiday  at  Institution  Eperveil 133 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  Day  at  Blonay 150 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
The  Winter 159 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
De  Lenz  and  Chopin 169 

CHAPTER  XV. 
New  Arrivals..." 183 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
Soiree  at  Tante  Octavie's 195 


CONTENTS.  vji 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PAGE 

The  Dismissal...  ..  208 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
Departure 224 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Arrival  of  an  Old  Friend 236 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Music  Talk 245 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Ehrenherz's  Last  Evening 256 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
Bad  News 263 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Helene „ 272 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Between  Life  and  Death „ „ 283 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
The  Cup  Taken  Away 291 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

PAGE 

A  Letter...,  296 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
The  New  Head  Master 303 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
Marie's  Compensation 309 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Hanging  Ends 319 


COMPENSATION. 


CHAPTER   I. 

GOOD-BY. 

"  IT  will  tire  you  too  much,  give  you  useless  pain,  to 
spend  this  day  in  your  new  home.  Send  Dora  to  make  all 
the  necessary  arrangements.  We  do  not  have  to  leave  you 
until  five  o'clock  this  afternoon.  Stay  the  day  with  us,  and 
this  morning  we  will  go  boating  on  this  beautiful  lake." 

Thus  kindly  talked  my  friends,  and  Dora,  my  maid,  urged 
their  proposition  so  earnestly  that  I  yielded,  and  let  her  go 
with  my  luggage  and  a  note  of  apology  to  my  hostess,  Ma 
dame  Bouvreuil :  then  off  we  started  in  the  pretty  little  boat 
with  a  gondola  screen  and  American  flag  on  the  mirror-like 
waters  of  this  lovely  Lake  of  the  Desert.  The  sky  was  of  a 
deep  purply  blue,  soft  and  tender  like  an  Italian  sky,  with 
hazy  clouds  hanging  around  the  tops  of  the  mountains. 
Dents  du  Midi  coquettishly  veiled  its  serrated  heads  ;  and 
even  Mount  Catogne  and  Mount  Velan,  the  St.  Bernard 
peak  rising  in  the  centre  of  the  Rhone  valley,  were  dim  and 
misty  looking ;  but  these  graceful  wavy  clouds  did  not  detract 
from  the  beauty  of  the  landscape  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  gave 
to  it  a  more  charming  effect.  We  skirted  along  the,  doub 
ling  shores  of  the  lake,  stopping  at  various  points,  as  some 

(9) 


1 0  COMPENSA  TION; 

beautiful  shady  hill  or  old  chateau  attracted  our  attention. 
At  Zillium  we  spent  a  pleasant  hour  :  in  the  vaults  we 
listened  to  the  guide's  stereotyped  descriptions,  and  hunted 
up  with  idle  curiosity  the  many  distinguished  names  cut 
on  the  stone  pillars  commemorative  of  their  sympathy  for 
an  imaginary  martyr  who  never  merited  it.  Beautiful 
sprays  of  the  maiden-hair  fern  grew  around  the  high  narrow 
arched  windows ;  the  walls  were  covered  with  a  soft  green 
mould ;  the  blue  of  the  heavens  mingling  with  the  green 
color  of  the  waters  of  the  lake  near  the  shore,  aided  by  the 
sun's  rays,  shot  in  at  the  windows  and  played  over 

"  the  seven  columns  of  Gothic  mould" 

in  fantastic  broken  gleams  of  the  most  delicate  shades  of 
purple,  blue,  and  emerald,  reminding  us  of  Capri's  Grotto  of 
Azure.  Then  we  mounted  to  the  bed-chamber  of  "  le  petit 
Charlemagne"  of  Savoy,  and  lingered  in  the  adjoining 
bower-room  of  his  duchess,  the  view  from  her  window 
recalling  to  us  what  the  old  chronicler  had  said  of  Count 
Wala's  imprisonment  in  this  same  old  fortress,  nearly  four 
centuries  before  Pierre  of  Savoy's  birth. 

"  The  Empress  Judith  wickedly  instigated  Louis-le- 
Debonnaire  to  seize  the  good  Count  Wala,  the  cousin, 
friend,  and  wise  counselor  of  his  father,  the  great  Char 
lemagne,  and  they  threw  him  into  a  fort  surrounded  on  all 
sides  by  water,  and  from  its  windows  could  only  be  seen 
the  heavens,  the  lake,  and  the  savage  Alps." 

"He  was  the  true  Prisoner  of  Zillium,"  said  C.;  "and 
yet  no  one  has  ever  written  a  poem  to  his  memory  ;  and 
how  few  even  know  of  him  and  his  noble  career !" 

As  we  rambled  off  from  the  castle  up  the  shady  mount 
ain  road  which  looked  so  tempting  from  its  picturesque 
beauty,  we  talked  rebelliously,  as  people  will,  over  the  in 
justice  of  history,  forgetting  that  it  is  a  human  thing,  a 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  \\ 

creation  of  man,  and  necessarily  unjust.  The  charming 
young  husband  and  wife  dwelt  with  tender  sadness  on 
Count  Wala's  beautiful  character,  his  courageous  truth 
fulness  and  simple  unostentatious  piety,  which  make  his 
memory  stand  out  in  that  distant  period  of  history  as  the 
light  of  one  -pure  clear  star  in  a  dusky  night ;  and  as  we 
strolled  along,  bringing  back  the  golden  days  of  Charle 
magne,  they  gathered  fern  leaves,  and  moss,  and  forget- 
me-nots,  as  graceful  memories  of  this  spot  so  rich  in  his 
torical  associations.  A  little  cascade  came  bounding  and 
leaping  down  the  hill-side, 

"with  its  light  foot  of  pearl." 

"What  is  the  name  of  that  pretty  waterfall  ?"  I  asked 
of  a  peasant  who  was  lounging  lazily  along. 

"  Oh !  that?  it  is  nothing!"  he  answered  in  a  pooh-pooh 
sort  of  style ;  "  it  is  only  a  source." 

La  Source !  How  the  name,  and  the  sound  of  the  dancing 

waters,  and  the  cool  mist  rising  from  it,  brought  back 's 

music !  The  "  Auf  Fliigelu  des  Gesanges"  of  Mendelssohn 
rang  in  my  ears ;  the  unison  of  memory's  melody  was  in  per 
fect  diapason  with  the  tone  of  the  little  chime  bells  of  the 
waterfall,  and  they  rang  together  in  melancholy  but  sweet 
harmony.  While  my  heart  was  running  over  with  regrets 
for  the  lost  and  gone,  the  old  life  broken  rudely  off,  and  the 
dreaded  unknown  new  life  so  chill  and  lonely,  C.  and  A. 
were  talking  of  their  home  across  the  broad  waters  ;  they 
had  left  the  good  old  Count  Wala  to  fall  back  into  his  gray 
misty  past,  and  with  hearts  full  of  sweet  young  hope  and 
love,  they  were  talking  of  the  cozy  library  in  their  quiet 
country  home, — that  little  library  room  whose  windows 
looked  on  the  setting  sun,  and  where  the  'sweet  twilights 
of  their  honeymoon  had  deepened  into  bright  happy  star 
lights.  The  old  chronicler,  who  had  led  to  the  memory  of 


12  COMPENSATION; 

the  Abbot  of  Corbie,  had  also  guided  their  thoughts  peace 
fully  back  to  their  quiet  happy  fireside. 

The  sun's  rays  growing  warmer,  and  the  shadows  steal 
ing  back  into  the  bushes,  reminded  us  of  the  hour,  so  we 
retraced  our  steps  and  returned  to  the  boat.  We  had  a  hard 
row  back,  for  the  bise,  a  northeast  wind,  blew  up  and  caused 
quite  a  little  sea :  cunning  white-caps — peMts  moulons,  as 
the  French  call  them — crested  the  miniature  billows:  the 
boatmen  lowered  the  screen  and  raised  the  pretty  lateen 
sail,  which  causes  our  lake  boats  to  look  like  birds  skim 
ming  over  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  we  rocked  swiftly 
and  merrily  along.  We  were  so  near  the  shore  as  to  be 
free  from  danger,  and  yet  just  enough  tossed  about  to  give 
the  appearance  of  insecurity  ;  it  roused  our  animal  spirits, 
and  we  sang  and  laughed  aloud  in  as  mad  glee  as  three  chil 
dren  frolicking  in  the  breakers.  Soon  we  were  at  the  steps 
of  the  hotel  terrace,  and  a  few  moments  after  were  seated  at 
our  early  dinner, — the  last  dinner  we  should  take  together 
for  many  years.  We  drank  each  other's  health  in  the  wine 
of  the  country,  the  light  golden  Y vorne  ;  then  we  sat  under 
the  trees  in  the  beautiful  garden,  while  we  sipped  our  coffee, 
gazed  dreamily  on  the  glorious  lake  and  opposite  mountain 
shores,  and  talked  pleasantly  and  lingeringly  together  ; 
every  moment  was  growing  so  precious  to  us. 

At  last  the  time  approached  for  them  to  leave,  and  I  ac 
companied  them  on  their  way  to  the  diligence  ;  how  jeal 
ously  memory  holds  on  to  every  incident!  We  loitered 
awhile  in  a  wood-carving  store,  then  to  the  post,  where  C. 
mailed  his  letters  and  I  left  my  new  address,  then  to  the 
diligence.  We  arrived  just  as  they  were  putting  the  horses 
to  the  heavy  lumbering  vehicle.  WThile  we  were  standing 
on  the  corner  of  the  Rue  du  Lac  and  the  Rue  de  Simplon, 
four  or  five  Italian  musicians  came  along,  looking  like  the 
Zampognari  bagpipers  from  the  Abruzzi,  who  are  to  be 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  13 

seen  in  the  Neapolitan  streets  in  winter,  "  virtuosos  ambu- 
lants,"  as  Topffer  calls  these  street  artists  ;  they  wore 
ragged,  dirty,  but  picturesque  dresses,  pointed  hats,  brown 
cloaks,  short  leathern  breeches  tied  with  gay-colored 
worsted  cords  and  tassels  that  left  their  brown  legs  bare 
from  the  knee  down,  and  sandals  on  their  naked  feet ;  some 
played  on  the  bagpipes,  others  sang,  and  one  danced  care 
lessly  but  in  perfect  time  to  the  wild  mountain  melody ; 
some  had  sheepskin  cloaks  hanging  from  their  bare  shoul 
ders,  and  their  shining  black  elf  locks  streamed  in  ragged 
curls  from  under  their  hats ;  they  were  all  beautifully 
formed  and  moved  with  classic  grace  and  ease.  The 
dancer  was  the  tallest  and  best  made  of  the  group  ;  he 
was  a  handsome  dog,  with  sparkling  eyes,  teeth  glittering 
white  like  the  ice  tops  of  these  Savoy  Alps,  brown  skin, 
and  a  merry  saucy  laugh  on  his  broad,  full,  red-lipped 
mouth,  while  his  gait  had  a  glorious  swing  as  if  he  knew 
and  felt  his  superb  proportions. 

"He  is  the  twin  brother  of  Teverino,"  said  C.,  laughing, 
"the  handsome  impudent  rogue!" 

But  while  our  eyes  followed  them  up  the  road,  as  they 
sang,  and  laughed,  and  swayed  about  with  careless  insou 
ciance,  it  was  announced  to  us  that  the  diligence  was  ready. 
I  bade  my  friends  good-by,  and  stood  watching  with  filling 
eyes  the  care  and  tender  attention  bestowed  by  the  young 
husband  upon  his  pretty  little  wife,  as  he  arranged  her' 
and  her  shawls  and  numberless  feminine  accessories  in 
the  coupe. 

"  It  is  so  sweet  to  be  loved !  How  a  woman's  heart 
naturally  yearns  for  the  protection  and  care  that  spring 
from  a  man's  love!"  were  the  words  I  felt  rushing  to 
my  lips. 

C.  turned  to  wave  a  good-by,  and  seeing  my  filling  eyes 
and  quivering  lips,  shook  his  finger  playfully  at  me,  while 

2 


14  COMPENSATION; 

his  honest  handsome  face  showed  the  sympathy  he  felt ;  A. 
looked  as  though  she  must  spring  from  the  coupe  window 
to  come  and  comfort  me.  I  dashed  the  weak  tears  aside 
with  resentment,  and  forced  a  laugh.  What,  after  all  my 
enduring  bravery,  to  fail  just  at  the  end  ?  My  expatria 
tion,  my  solitary  new  life,  though  a  wise  conclusion,  had 
it  not  been  a  voluntary  one  ?  Now  was  not  the  time  for 
weakness  and  tears. 

"  Voila  !"  I  cried,  pointing  to  the  gaudy  driver,  who, 
springing  to  his  seat,  seized  his  bright  horn  which  hung 
from  his  shoulder  on  a  gay-colored  leathern  strap.  "  C'est 
le  Postilion  de  Lonjumeau  !"  And  turning  abruptly  on  my 
heel,  I  walked  off  rapidly  to  the  sound  of  the  cracking  whip, 
the  running  chords  of  the  horn,  and  the  rumbling  wheels 
of  the  diligence,  which  rolled  away  in  its  cloud  of  dust  up 
the  road  to  F.  It  all  sounded  in  my  ears,  this  mass  of 
confused  noises,  like  the  thundering  clang  of  a  heavy  iron 
gate.  I  felt  shut  out,  Hagar-like,  in  my  wilderness.  "And 
not  even  an  Ishmael  to  comfort  me!"  I  said  with  a 
choked  voice  to  myself. 

I  had  a  long,  lonely  walk,  and  weary  enough  was  I 
when  I  reached  my  new  residence.  I  lifted  the  latch  of 
the  iron-clamped  door  softly,  walked  quietly  up  the  stone 
staircase  over  the  brick-paved  hall  of  the  massive  old 
house,  which  hundreds  of  years  before  had  been  an  old 
.convent,  to  my  salon  door.  I  opened  the  door  and  en 
tered  the  room ;  there  sat  Dora  at  a  window,  with  her 
eternal  crocheting  hanging  from  her  fingers,  looking  out 
with  that  vague  German  rapture  on  the  beauty  of  nature 
spread  before  her.  Beau,  my  pet  dog,  a  King  Charles 
spaniel,  leaped  from  her  lap  and  greeted  me  with  a  howl 
of  delight. 

"Voila!  my  little  Ishmael!"  my  heart  said. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  15 


CHAPTER    II. 

MY   NEW   HOME. 

I  CAN  scarcely  imagine  a  prettier,  cozier  scene  than  my 
little  salon  presented  the  first  evening  of  my  arrival  at 
Peilz.  From  the  windows  could  be  seen  a  view  of  ravish 
ing  beauty;  there  were  the  grand  Alps  topped  with  snow, 
the  beautiful  lake  that  swept  between  me  and  them,  and 
then  a  pretty  rustic  garden  and  orchard  lay  beneath.  In 
side  the  room  everything  bespoke  the  presence  of  comfort, 
mixed  with  the  picturesque,  one  sees  so  often  in  Europe. 
We  are  so  practical,  so  positive  in  America,  that  our  do 
mestic  interiors  rarely  possess  this  charm;  wealth  and 
culture  may  bring  magnificent  elegance ;  the  regular,  in 
dustrious  habits  of  our  people  of  moderate  means  procure 
cleanliness  and  orderly  arrangements ;  but  rarely  pictur 
esque  attractions  decorate  our  homes.  In  America  we 
are  all  living  to  work;  in  Europe  there  is  little  of  this 
feverish  unrest,  they  barely  work  to  live ;  and  it  is  folly 
to  say  which  is  right — each  people  do  as  an  unseen  destiny 
impels  them.  A  great  overruling  power  quiets  the  life- 
pulse  of  one  nation,  and  sends  bounding  along  in  a  hot, 
feverish,  throbbing  tide,  the  life-current  of  another,  and  it 
is  only  when  cycles  of  ages  have  passed,  that  the  great 
events  intended  to  be  gained  by  His  wise  direction  are 
shown  ;  but  individual  man,  like  the  silly  fly  on  the  wheel 
in  the  fable,  will  continue  to  fret  and  fume,  and  fancy  he 
creates  all  that  is  made ;  he  may  mar  for  awhile,  and 


16  COMPENSATION; 

cause  jerks  and  harmless  confusion  in  the  great  whirring 
machinery,  but  that  is  all — he  is  still  but  the  fly  on  the 
wheel,  or  one  of  the  trifling  accessories  to  a  great  system. 
But  I  am  wandering  out  of  my  woman's  sphere,  and  far 
off  from  my  simple  salon  in  Switzerland. 

Thin  fleecy  white  mull  curtains  were  looped  back  with 
crimson  cords  from  either  side  of  the  windows  ;  in  front  of 
these  windows  was  a  soft-cushioned  sofa,  covered  with 
a  gay  bright  chintz,  over  whose  light  ground  wandered 
vines  covered  with  roses  of  the  most  brilliant  hues ;  a 
round  table  stood  in  front  of  the  sofa ;  and  half  ad 
vanced  from  one  of  the  corners  of  the  room,  that  the  light 
might  fall  on  it,  was  a  tall,  carved  walnut  cabinet,  with  a 
falling  desk  and  brass-mounted  drawers.  A  semi-grand 
piano  stood  in  front  of  the  doors  of  the  alcove  chamber  of 
my  maid.  On  the  other  side  of  the  room  a  door  opened 
into  another  fine  airy  chamber  as  large  as  the  salon,  which 
was  also  draped  in  snowy-white  curtains,  bound  and  looped 
with  crimson;  that  was  my  sleeping  apartment.  Dora, 
good  creature,  had  done  all  she  could  to  make  the  rooms 
look  natural  and  comfortable  to  my  eyes.  She  had  un 
packed  all  my  books  and  scattered  them  about  to  the  best 
of  her  knowledge.  Voltaire,  Jeremy  Taylor,  Moliere,  Pas 
cal,  and  Rousseau  were  piled  in  friendly  companionship 
on  the  mantel  top  of  the  brass-bound,  white  earthen  stove. 
She  knew  little  of  books  except  by  their  bindings,  and  when 
left  to  her  own  judgment  in  arranging  them,  was  very  apt 
to  make  odd  groupings.  Shakspeare,  Cowper,  Byron,  and 
Shelley,  my  four  literary  gospels,  were  ranged  around  the 
table,  with  Mrs.  Browning's  dearly-loved  volumes  piled 
up  in  the  centre,  suggesting  Joseph's  dream :  the  stronger 
brethren  bowing  to  the  weaker  member  of  the  great  family 
circle  of  poets,  only  weaker  because  she  is  a  woman,  and 
in  her  weakness  is  her  strength.  That  soft,  low  woman 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  17 

voice  of  this  age !  It  rings  out  pure  and  clear,  like  the 
silvery  tone  of  an  angel's  trumpet  music,  as  heard  in  one 
of  those  dreams  that  come  to  us  when  sorrow  or  sickness 
almost  emancipates  the  soul  from  the  body.  Thrice  blessed 
and  happy  should  this  woman  poet  be,  for  her  poems  have 
sustained  many  a  sister  woman  in  life's  weary  journey, 
elevating  her  above  its  petty  but  cutting  miseries,  and  con 
soling  her  for  its  shortcomings.  Oh,  that  glorious  state  of 
existence  into  which  the  works  of  genius  lift  us  !  To 
many  of  us  it  is  the  only  real  being,  and  this  feverish  state 
of  "  distorted  wills  "  called  life,  is  but  a  horrid  dream. 

The  desk  was  open,  and  all  my  writing  materials  out, — 
the  portefeuille  and  locked  journal,  as  if  I  had  sat  there  at 
work  for  months.  A  comfortable  fauteuil,  covered  with 
the  same  cheerful  chintz  as  the  sofa,  stood  in  front  of  it. 
Even  the  piano  lid  was  laid  back,  and  Schubert's  volume 
of  Romances  was  placed  on  the  music  stand,  opened  at  the 
girl's  favorite  song,  "  Lob  der  Thranen,"  the  very  sight 
of  which  sent  a  thrill  to  my  heart.  Could  I  ever  sing 
again  ?  Would  music  be  a  comfort  to  me  in  my  loneliness  ? 
For  when  I  am  sad  and  suffering,  my  own  music  is  always 
a  scourge.  The  sound  of  my  voice  acts  like  the  magical 
sesame ;  it  unfastens  the  doors  of  memory,  and  straight 
way  phantoms  surround  me  ;  phantoms  of  the  past,  forms 
of  joy  and  sorrow,  rapture  and  agony, — all  these  cluster 
and  press  close  upon  my  heart,  demanding  tribute,  the 
memory  of  the  past  joys  more  keen  in  its  pain  than  the 
sorrow  even, — 

"Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felico 
Nella  miseria," — 

and  the  melody  breaks  sharply  off  in  a  sob  which  shows 
how  bitter  is  the  anguish. 

Dora,  as  I  have  said,  was  sitting  by  the  window  in  front 
2* 


18  COMPENSATION; 

of  a  little  sewing-table.  Good  girl,  she  knew  how  much 
first  impressions  affected  me,  and  she  wished  to  create  as 
much  as  lay  in  her  power  the  appearance  of  a  home. 
"  Home!  ah,  that  is  so  hard  to  recreate  after  physical  and 
moral  death  step  over  the  threshold,"  my  rebellious  heart 
murmured.  She  sprang  up  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  and 
hastened  to  take  off  my  wrappings.  She  looked  so  bright, 
and  the  room  so  pleasant  and  cheery,  everything  was  so 
much  more  comfortable  than  I  had  expected,  that — shall 
I  confess  my  naughty  weakness?  yes — I  felt  provoked;  I 
shivered  from  head  to  foot  in  my  peevish  misery. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  cold,"  she  said  tenderly. 

"  Of  course,"  I  answered  in  a  husky  voice,  made  rough 
by  the  unshed  tears  which  clouded  over  me ;  "  in  these 
bleak  mountainous  countries  one  is  always  cold." 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but  hastened  to  unfasten  my 
dust  cloak.  I  hurried  past  her,  leaving  the  mantle  behind 
me,  and  entered  the  bedroom ;  as  I  did  so  my  eye  caught 
sight  of  a  little  table  in  the  corner  near  the  door,  on  which 
she  had  put  all  the  miniature  cases,  my  work-box,  and  one 
or  two  little  keepsakes ;  my  heart  clutched  tight  like  the 
gripe  of  a  hand ;  I  grew  blind,  and  reeled,  and  but  for  her 
strong  arms  should  have  fallen  to  the  ground.  She  laid 
me  on  the  bed,  over  which  the  curtains  fell  like  a  tent- 
covering,  from  a  gilt  eagle  beak,  and  commenced  undress 
ing  me  as  if  I  had  been  an  infant.  But  I  would  be  use 
lessly  brave,  so  I  arose  and  hurried  with  fretful  haste  to 
help  her  in  the  work. 

My  eyes  glanced  around  the  room,  where  I  saw  new 
proofs  of  the  thoughtful  care  of  my  kind  maid :  on  the 
table  under  the  long  mirror  was  my  dressing-case,  spread 
open,  neat  and  tidy,  showing  no  marks  of  the  long  journey 
it  had  taken,  or  the  hasty  rude  usage  it  had  been  forced 
to  receive  in  the  past  few  months ;  every  one  of  my  old 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  19 

bedroom  luxuries  was  out,  as  though  I  had  dressed  and 
undressed  in  the  chamber  from  childhood  ;  the  pincushion, 
with  its  clean,  fresh  cover,  had  the  pins  put  in  carelessly, 
and  also  two  or  three  common  morning  brooches  hung 
from  it,  as  if  my  own  hands  had  stuck  them  there  after 
the  morning's  toilette.  On  an  easy-chair  by  the  bed  lay 
spread  out  temptingly  my  dressing-wrapper,  whose  rosy 
lining  and  border  shone  gayly  against  the  snowy  fringe  of 
the  bed  curtain  which  fell  beside  it,  and  on  a  footstool  were 
the  crimson  crocheted  slippers.  Everywhere  was  displayed 
the  graceful  orderly  disorder  of  occupied  rooms.  On  a  little 
table  in  the  corner  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  she  had  piled 
my  Bible  and  devotional  books,  placed  on  either  side  a 
blessed  candle,  and  in  the  centre  a  little  round  porcelain 
altar  lamp,  all  the  furniture  of  a  simple  bedroom  altar; 
upon  the  wall  she  had  tacked  a  small  engraving  which 
she  had  found  in  my  book  trunk,  a  Madonna  della  Sedia, 
and  around  it  she  had,  with  simple  grace,  woven  a  rustic 
frame  of  the  dark  woodbine  leaves,  and  with  some  white 
rose-buds  and  leaves  she  had  formed  a  cross,  which  she 
had  fastened  to  the  wall  inside  the  canopy  covering  of 
my  bed,  and  from  it  hung  my  prayer  beads.  Now  she 
was  a  good  steady  Lutheran,  this  Dora  of  mine,  so  this 
part  of  her  work  was  a  touching  evidence  of  her  Christian 
liberality  and  charity.  Would  that  all  Christians  in  this 
world  could  live  together  as  affectionately  as  my  Lutheran 
maid  and  her  Catholic  mistress;  the  season  of  peace  and 
good-will  would  surely  be  near  at  hand.  And  her  reason 
ing  is  so  simple  on  the  subject  of  my  Catholic  observances 
and  ceremonies: — 

"  What  is  meant  good  is  good;  God  makes  it  good  with 
a  blessing." 

She  had  used  the  day  industriously  as  well  as  lovingly, 
and  I  could  not  but  acknowledge  it  to  myself,  if  I  did  re- 


20  COMPENSATION; 

main  so  ungraciously  silent ;  but  still  I  was  miserable ; 
"  a  spring  of  tears  welled  back  o'  my  eyelids,"  and  I  would 
not  allow  myself  to  be  comforted. 

"Madame  Bouvreuil,"  commenced  Dora,  as  she  unfast 
ened  the  buttons  of  my  undersleeve. 

"I  do  sincerely  hope,"  I  interrupted  in  a  bored  tone, 
"that  I  am  not  to  be  annoyed  with  seeing  any  one  this 
evening." 

"  That  is  just  what  madame  thought,"  answered  Dora, 
as  she  gave  me  a  chair  to  sit  on,  and  stooped  down  to 
unlace  my  boots.  "  She  said  mademoiselle  would  feel  too 
weary  to  see  any  one  to-night,  so  when  she  brought  in  the 
flowers  which  are  on  the  table,  she  left  her  compliments, 
and  hoped  if  mademoiselle  wished  for  anything " 

By  this  time  the  boots  were  off,  and  I  sprang  up  so 
hastily  and  jerked  my  collar  off  so  impatiently,  that  poor 
Dora,  with  admirable  tact,  seeing  that  I  was  not  in  the 
mood  for  conversation,  remained  quiet  and  said  not  a  word 
during  the  rest  of  the  undressing.  I  wrapped  my  soft 
gown  around  me  and  crept  into  the  little  bed  ;  my  senses 
were  steeped  heavily  in  the  black  opium  tide  of  sorrow ; 
I  longed  for  a  sleep  of  forgetfulness.  Dora  smoothed  the 
pillows,  giving  them  that  confortable  slope  some  women 
hands  understand  as  by  instinct ;  she  then  drew  the  cur 
tains  around  me  and  over  the  windows  in  pretty  folds,  on 
which  she  knew  my  eyes  would  rest  gratefully,  arranged 
Beau's  basket, — even  that  detail  she  had  not  forgotten, 
— and  I  lay  there  apparently  ungrateful,  so  selfish  does 
extreme  grief  sometimes  make  us.  But  Beau,  like  his 
mistress,  would  not  take  what  was  prepared  for  him  in 
kindness  and  love,  with  pleasant  grace ;  he  growled  and 
snapped,  and  crouched  close  to  my  feet  on  the  outside  of 
the  bed,  scarcely  allowing  her  to  throw  a  shawl  over  him, 
the  thankless  little  beast ;  he  intended  that  we  should  be 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  21 

cross  and  miserable  together.  She  then  brought  me  a 
waiter,  on  which  were  a  cup  of  fragrant  tea,  some  tempt 
ing  thin  slices  of  bread  and  butter,  and  some  delicate  con 
fitures,  with  a  little  panier  of  large  anana  strawberries  in 
a  huge  grape  leaf.  I  swallowed  the  tea  chokingly,  then 
turned  my  back,  and  buried  my  face  in  the  pillow.  The 
girl  lighted  the  night  lamp,  set  it  up  in  the  niche  above 
the  porcelain  stove,  and  withdrew  silently  into  the  salon. 

Sleep,  little  Fanny  Fauvette,  and  dream  of  that  past 
which,  with  all  its  miseries,  will  always  be  dearer  than 
the  most  golden-hued  future. 


22  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE  FAMILY. 

Now  of  that  past  of  Fanny  Fauvette  there  is  nothing  to 
say.  Like  the  buried  towns  on  the  Sorrentine  promontory 
of  Southern  Italy,  a  hot  wave  had  passed  over  it,  burning 
out  all  life  and  quieting  to  sleep  even  restless  hope ;  its 
only  future,  like  that  of  the  grave,  rested  on  God's  here 
after.  In  Peilz  the  new  life  was  to  commence,  and  its 
happiness  or  content  depended  upon  circumstances ;  the 
characters  of  my  new  associates  would  affect  it  greatly, 
but  the  principal  things  required  were  physical  and  moral 
ability  on  my  own  part  to  enable  me  to  take  it  up  with 
strength  and  courage ;  and  this  I  faced  steadily  from  the 
beginning. 

The  first  morning  I  awakened  to  a  glorious  sunrise.  I 
sprang  from  the  bed,  and,  wrapping  my  dressing-gown 
around  me,  stepped  out  on  the  gallery  in  front  of  my 
windows  to  enjoy  it  fully.  It  was  only  four  o'clock,  and 
the  whole  human  world  seemed  asleep,  except  that  in  a 
neighboring  yard  two  men  sat  listlessly  talking  together 
in  front  of  a  grange.  The  Rhone  valley  w^as  lighted  up 
with  the  most  gorgeous  colors,  and  Dents  du  Midi  and 
Dent  du  Morcles,  on  either  side,  seemed  as  if  holding  out 
banners  to  herald  the  approach  of  the  day-god.  The'  op 
posite  mountains  reared  their  snow-crested  heads,  and  up 
their  rugged  sides  crept  little  clouds  that  grew  rosier  and 
rosier  in  their  ascent,  like  the  graceful  mountain  nymphs 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  23 

in  classic  legend.  The  lake  lay  smooth  as  a  plain;  two 
boats  stood  on  its  surface  with  their  shadows  clearly  de 
fined  beneath  them.  I  sat  as  one  entranced,  and  enjoyed 
the  varying  beauty  of  the  scene. 

"Ah!"  I  said  over  and  over  again  to  myself,  "  I  can  find 
contentment  of  spirit  surely  here,  for  the  sublimity  of  these 
glorious  mountains,  the  loveliness  of  beautiful  nature,  must 
give  rest  and  stillness." 

I  had  so  lately  known  the  bitter  experience  of  sorrow, 
that  it  seemed  in  the  very  rustling  of  the  leaves  I  could 

"hear  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust;" 

and  this  made  my  bruised  being,  struggling  for  strength, 
turn  toward  sweet  mother  Nature,  to  claim  kindred  with 
her,  and  ask  her  gracious  healing  aid.  I  sat  and  drank  in 
sweet  comfort,  and  also  sweet  pain,  from  the  mountains, 
sky,  and  lake ;  there  was  the  regret  for  the  absence  of  the 
dead-lost,  which  became  milder  grief  when  I  recalled  how 
much  of  my  agony  they  were  spared  ;  then  came  grander, 
holier  thoughts,  as  if  the  high  mountains  had  bowed  down 
and  lifted  up  my  spirit  to  their  level,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  I  too  was  made  capable  of 

"drinking  in  the  soul  of  things." 

So  much  strength  and  wisdom  did  that  morning  reverie 
give  me,  that  I  was  courageous  enough,  after  my  solitary 
breakfast,  to  occupy  myself  industriously.  I  arranged  my 
books,  ordered  my  hours,  and  laid  out  my  plan  of  study. 
Oh  yes !  I  would  accomplish  an  immense  deal,  for  is  not 
occupation  the  great  secret  of  a  certain  kind  of  happiness, 
that  negative  happiness  which  arises  from  satisfaction 
with  one's  self?  The  dinner  hour  arrived,  and  then  I 
had  to  break  through  my  morbid  desire  for  solitude,  and 


24  COMPENSATION; 

unite  with  the  family  of  my  host  and  hostess.  I  may  as 
well  give  here  an  outline  of  the  characters  and  appearance 
of  the  members  of  my  new  domestic  circle.  The  family 
consisted  of  a  father  and  mother,  one  son  and  daughter, 
both  grown,  and  a  young  man  who,  like  myself,  was  un 
connected  by  blood  with  the  Bouvreuils. 

Professor  Bouvreuil,  the  father,  was  a  man  of  great 
learning  and  pleasant  manners ;  he  was  over  mid-age  when 
I  came  to  Peilz,  of  middle  height,  with  a  figure  inclined  to 
stoutness ;  he  had  a  cheerful,  kind  face,  with  fresh  com 
plexion,  thoughtful,  dreamy  blue  eyes,  a  fine  Scipio  Afri- 
canus  brow  and  head,  with  thin  silky  gray  hair,  which 
hung  in  sparse  locks  over  his  clear  blue-veined  temples. 
The  outline  of  his  face  was  slightly  Jewish,  the  nose  being 
half-way  between  the  Italian  and  Hebrew  type,  and  the 
eyes  were  set  in  oblique  angles  from  the  nose,  having  a 
drooping  of  the  lid  at  the  outer  corners  which  added  a  sad 
look  to  the  dreamy,  speculative  expression  of  the  eye  itself; 
but  for  the  cheerful,  almost  merry  smile  which  played 
about  his  full  good-natured  mouth,  his  face  would  have 
been  a  melancholy  one.  The  very  first  look  at  him  con 
vinced  one  that  he  was  never  intended  by  nature  for  an 
actor  on  life's  stage.  He  was  a  thinker — not  a  very  posi 
tive  or  practical  one,  however;  and  I  have  heard  super 
ficial  judges  call  Professor  Bouvreuil  inexact  in  his  knowl 
edge  ;  but  he  was  not ;  his  speculative,  inquiring  habits 
of  mind,  and  a  vague  manner  of  thinking  aloud  his  undi 
gested  ideas,  which  was  his  way  of  giving  them  form  and 
shape  for  the  satisfaction  and  benefit  of  his  own  mind, 
produced  this  impression  on  persons  who  did  not  know 
him  intimately,  or  who  judged  all  minds  by  one  narrow 
positive  rule ;  then  his  entire  freedom  from  ambition  made 
him  indifferent  about  bringing  his  speculations  to  any 
practical  result.  He  loved  and  wooed  learning  for  learn- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  25 

ing's  sweet  sake,  not  for  what  learning  could  procure  for 
him  of  worldly  goods  or  reputation.  He  always  recalled 
to  me  those  lines  of  Wordsworth  : — 

"what  happiness  to  live 
When  every  hour  brings  palpable  access 
Of  knowledge,  when  all  knowledge  is  delight, 
And  sorrow  is  not  there." 

His  father  had  been  a  wealthy  merchant  of  Berlin,  and 
had  educated  this  son  and  two  daughters  with  infinite 
care  and  cost.  They  had  studied  under  the  direction  of 
the  great  Neander,  and  were  all  marvelously  clever.  As 
they  grew  up,  the  poor  father  failed  in  business,  and  died  ; 
then  they  found  their  learning  truly  better  than  house 
and  land.  One  sister,  Ottilie,  a  girl  of  great  promise  and 
beauty,  went  to  sleep  at  the  same  sorrowful  period,  and 
was  laid  in  the  grave  with  the  poor  broken-hearted  father 
and  the  mother,  who  had  died  seventeen  years  before, 
when  she  gave  birth  to  this  lovely  creature.  Often  I  re 
garded,  with  dreamy  admiration,  an  exquisite  portrait 
they  had  of  this  young  girl,  whose  Sappho-like  fragments 
of  poetry,  filled  with  lofty  tenderness,  and  journals  con 
taining  high  glorious  thoughts,  showed  how  well  she  had 
merited  the  tears  of  regret  and  admiration  shed  over  her 
remains  by  the  solemn,  taciturn  Neander,  of  whom  she 
had  been  a  favorite,  even  an  idolized  pupil. 

The  other  sister,  with  her  husband,  had  established, 
soon  after  her  father's  death,  the  college  for  which  Peilz 
is  and  has  been  famous  for  many  years,  and  in  which  the 
brother  became  a  professor.  Professor  Bouvreuil  was  one 
of  those  men  so  often  met  with  in  these  old  countries  of 
Europe,  with  enough  science  and  acquirements  to  endow  a 
whole  faculty ;  his  fine  head  contained  a  library  of  knowl 
edge,  but  he  was  quite  out  of  place  in  this  practical  age. 
Had  he  loved  mankind  as  he  loved  bookkind,  he  would 

3 


26  COMPENSATION; 

have  been  one  of  the  philanthropic  reformers  of  the  day ; 
but  he  had  been  brought  up  under  the  mild,  reasonable 
rule  of  the  Prussian  government;  happiness  and  public 
rights  had  never  seemed  rare  or  difficult  to  him ;  the  sim 
ple,  unostentatious  living  of  the  Prussian  nobility  makes 
life  more  easy  for  the  poorer  classes ;  he  had  never  seen 
the  violent  contrasts,  the  injustice  arising  from  the  osten 
tation  and  selfish  indnlgence  of  wealthy  rank.  He  was 
one  of  Guizot's  esprits  exigeans,  caracfdres  complaisans. 
He  was  content,  after  the  daily  routine  of  class  lessons 
and  lectures,  which  brought  the  quotidian  bread,  to  bury 
himself  in  his  library,  working  at  his  book  on  India  (where 
he  had  gone  as  chaplain  to  some  government  mission  the 
first  few  years  after  his  father's  death),  his  geographical 
studies,  and  the  plan  of  an  immense  map  on  a  new  system, 
for  geography,  treated  in  a  philosophical  light,  was  his 
favorite  study;  he  had  some  curious  notions  of  the  effect 
of  certain  geographical  formations  and  changes  upon  the 
human  mind  and  character;  he  could  account  for  all  the 
great  events  in  the  history  of  humanity  by  his  geographi 
cal  system.  How  often  I  have  listened  to  his  thinkings 
aloud  on  this  subject,  for  they  could  not  be  called  conver 
sations  ;  but  his  vague  shadows  of  thoughts  thrown  on  to 
the  cloudy,  dreamy  mirror  of  my  mind,  which  had  never 
produced  an  exact  reflection  of  any  scientific  or  metaphysi 
cal  idea  during  the  whole  time  it  had  dwelt  in  my  body, 
of  course  left  no  trace  behind  them.  I  loved,  however,  to 
listen  to  him,  to  his  mild  musical  voice ;  and  the  very 
vagueness  and  disjointedness  of  his  talk  gave  a  poetical 
dreaminess  to  the  abstract  subjects,  while  from  the  lips  of 
a  more  positive  talker  they  would  have  been  tedious. 
Then  he  liked  to  talk  to  me  next  best  to  his  wife,  for  we 
both  listened  without  requiring  exact  definings  of  his  posi 
tion,  I  must  say  he  gave  nip  cr.edij;  for  possessing  more 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  2T 

cleverness  than  I  merited,  just  because  I  listened  to  him 
in  a  quiet  understanding  manner,  and  this  he  valued  all 
the  more  as  he  did  not  meet  with  many  such  patient 
listeners.  His  wife  listened  from  a  habit  born  of  a  deep 
sympathizing  love ;  I  did,  as  I  have  said,  because  I  loved 
to  hear  him  talk,  and  also  because  he  let  drop  from  the 
richness  of  his  acquirements,  historical  facts  and  associa 
tions,  suggestions  that  gave  me  food  for  sweet  poetic 
thought — "  imp  feathers,"  as  it  were,  to  the  weak  wings 
of  my  own  imagination. 

I  have  described  thus  minutely  the  peculiarities  of  the 
professor's  mind  and  manner,  not  that  he  played  any  prom 
inent  part  in  my  new  life,  but  because  I  think  he  had  a 
character  CL  lui,  as  the  French  say,  and  I  always  loved  to 
analyze  it  even  in  my  unskillful  manner ;  it  was  one  of 
which  a  word-portrait  might  be  made  by  a  clever  pen, 
that  would  resemble  one  of  those  suggestive  portraits  of 
Holbein,  Cuyp,  or  Rembrandt,  some  of  those  curious  life 
like  faces  in  which  the  looker-on  can  read  a  life  history; 
no  idealization  of  the  countenance,  but  all  the  individual 
characteristics  speaking  oat  in  some  curious  details  of  the 
features  ;  nothing  symbolic  or  romantic,  as  in  Raphael's 
or  Da  Yinci's,  but  a  close  imitation  of  nature,  such  as 
some  certain  furrows  on  the  brow,  some  cunning  unknown 
lines  about  the  mouth,  or  a  sly  wrinkle  in  the  eye-corner, 
which  betray  the  workings  of  the  hidden  soul,  and  that 
will  show  themselves  on  the  face  after  long  years  of  secret 
life-labor,  no  matter  how  calm  may  be  the  countenance,  or 
self-concentrated  the  nature,  or  harder  than  iron  the  will. 

Madame  Bouvreuil  was  just  the  wife  for  such  a  man: 
intelligent,  appreciative,  and  at  the  same  time  fond  of  do 
mestic  life,  home  duties,  and  home  pursuits.  She  superin 
tended  her  house,  which  was  no  easy  business ;  her  skillful 
fingers  seasoned  the  white  sauces  so  pleasant  to  the  taste 


28  COMPENSATION; 

of  the  professor,  who,  unconsciously,  was  just  on  the  edge 
of  being  a  gourmand;  prepared  the  delicious  confitures, 
ordered  the  quarterly  lessice,  or  great  wash,  directed  the 
huge  ironings,  made  every  one  comfortable  in  the  house, 
and  yet  did  it  orderly  and  quietly.  She  had  a  peculiar 
tact  about  such  things  as  domestic  affairs.  Her  husband 
was  one  of  the  few  appreciative  husbands  I  ever  knew, 
and  probably  that  contributed  to  make  her  more  success 
ful.  Domestic  praise,  that  rarest  of  all  kinds  of  praise,  is 
a  great  incentive  and  spur  to  perfection.  The  professor 
used  to  say  that  his  wife  had  brought  as  much  intellect  to 
bear  on  a  nursery  and  household  as  would  have  sufficed  to 
have  governed  a  kingdom.  She  possessed  some  clever 
qualities  that  fitted  her  well  for  her  position  in  life ;  she 
was  prompt  and  decided,  without  being  opinionative ;  en 
ergetic,  but  not  disagreeably  so ;  then  she  had  a  natural 
tendency  to  classify  everything,  and  this  aided  her  in 
what  would  have  been  for  any  one  else  very  laborious 
housekeeping.  She  was  a  little  woman,  well  made  in  her 
form,  and  without  personal  vanity,  although  she  paid  great 
attention  to  her  appearance — to  the  cut  and  fit  of  her  robe, 
and  dressing  of  her  hair.  Morning,  noon,  and  night, 
Madame  Bouvreuil  always  looked  the  lady,  whether  in 
the  neat  print  morning  wrapper  or  dark  silk  evening  dress, 
whose  cut  defined  well  the  slender  roundness  of  her  pretty 
waist,  the  graceful  fall  of  her  shoulders,  and  the  full  pro 
portions  of  her  exquisite  little  figure.  She  had  a  clear 
olive  complexion,  deep  dark-gray  eyes,  a  firm  mouth,  and 
a  great  quantity  of  dark-brown  hair,  over  which  she  wore, 
more  for  ornament  than  necessity,  a  lace  kerchief  folded  in 
half,  with  the  point  falling  over  the  front  of  the  head — 
a  la  Marie  Stuart — and  tied  in  light  soft  folds  under  her 
pretty  round  chin  ;  it  was  excessively  becoming.  The 
general  character  of  her  face  was  rather  serious ;  it  iudi- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  29 

cated  a  firm,  concentrated  nature,  and  an  even,  well-bal 
anced  disposition  and  mind ;  she  soared  far  above  all 
littleness  of  life  and  of  people  ;  she  took  a  wide  extended 
view  of  things,  and  seemed  always  to  act  as  one  who 
thought  everything  that  interfered  with  the  quiet  and 
happiness  of  life  as  unavoidable  but  mysterious  mistakes 
and  errors,  that  should  not  happen,  but  at  the  same  time 
should  not  be  fretted  over.  Madame  Bouvreuil's  domestic 
life  had  had  enough  of  annoyances  in  it  to  have  made  it 
to  many  women  insupportable.  Her  husband,  though  a 
loving  and  appreciative  one,  did  not  care  for  any  one's 
comfort,  scarcely  his  own ;  he  had  been  brought  up  with 
all  the  appliances  that  wealth  procures,  and  needed,  or 
rather  expected,  certain  domestic  comforts  which,  with  his 
income  and  position,  were  positive  luxuries,  and  cost  great 
labor  to  his  wife  ;  but  he  always  acted  about  them  as  if 
they  grew  spontaneously.  Then  his  sister,  Madame  Eper- 
veil,  the  principal  of  the  institution  at  Peilz,  a  most  pro- 
vokingly  imperious  woman,  would  have  been  an  unceasing 
cause  of  torment  to  a  sister-in-law  of  a  different  disposition. 
Madame  Bouvreuil  mildly  and  quietly  managed  all  these 
domestic  difficulties  as  if  they  were  weaknesses  and  errors 
in  her  domestic  machine,  which  must  be  accommodated, 
but  not  dwelt  on  or  fretted  over.  She  loved  her  husband 
tenderly,  and  her  son  with  more  anxiety  than  she  showed 
about  anything  else,  but  she  adored  her  daughter. 

He'lene  Bouvreuil  was  not  at  home  when  I  first  came  to 
Peilz,  being  absent  with  her  aunt  on  a  summer  visit  to 
some  relatives  in  Berlin;  but  I  will  sketch  her  here  in  this 
collection  of  family  portraits.  She  had  all  her  mother's 
attractions  of  form,  but  was  much  taller,  and  her  features 
were  more  strikingly  beautiful.  Madame  Bouvreuil's  face 
was  too  thoughtful  and  elevated  in  its  expression  to  be 
merely  pretty,  yet  it  had  not  the  points  to  make  it  what 

3* 


30  COMPENSATION; 

her  daughter's  was  —  beautiful.  Helene  resembled  her 
father  a  little,  and  the  portrait  of  her  Aunt  Ottilie  more; 
she  was  just  a  little  above  middle  height,  and  to  her  form 
could  be  applied  those  expressive  French  adjectives,  svelte, 
elancee;  she  was  full  enough  for  beauty,  and  every  move 
ment  was  attractive  and  graceful ;  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see 
her  move  about  a  room,  she  handled  everything  and  used 
her  well-proportioned  fair  hands  so  agreeably.  She  had  a 
well-shaped  head,  which  was  set  finely  on  her  beautiful 
neck  and  shoulders ;  a  clear  fair  skin,  very  pale  at  times, 
and  then  a  color  flushing  over  it  as  delicate  as  the  soft 
pink  of  a  shell ;  her  eyes  were  a  brown  gray,  with  long 
lashes  and  drooping  lids ;  her  hair  might  have  been  called 
black,  but  for  a  shade  of  golden  brown  that  played  over  it 
in  some  lights ;  she  wore  it  with  one  rich  tress  braided 
and  bound  around  her  temples,  and  the  rest  all  gathered 
in  a  large  knot  of  plaits  low  down  on  the  back  of  her 
head.  The  outline  of  her  face  resembled  her  father's — 
the  same  blending  of  the  Italian  and  Jewish — and  what 
an  indefinable  beauty  a  slight  expression  of  the  Jewish 
type  gives  to  a  certain  style  of  womanly  loveliness  I  There 
is  a  poetical  dreaminess  in  it,  an  exquisite  charm  hangs 
around  the  full  red  lips,  a  delicate  feeling  in  the  quivering: 
nostril  of  the  slightly  curved  but  beautiful  nose:  then  in 
the  expression  of  the  eyes  there  is-  all  the  Rachel  love 
and  Mary-mother  tenderness, — deep,  adoring  love  without 
passion;  love  so  intense  that  it  seems  a -little  still  and 
sad,  as  do  all  human  emotions  when  very  profound.  There 
is  a  Holy  Family  by  Carlo  Maratti,  whose  Madonna- 
mother  has  just  this  beauty  that  Helene  Bouvreuil  had 
when  I  saw  her  in  her  first  flush  of  early  womanhood. 

Though  Helene  took  her  beauty  from  her  father's  family, 
she  had  more  of  the  disposition  of  her  mother;  there  was 
the  same  quiet,  calm  self-control,  but  not  the  same  self-de- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  31 

pendence;  she  was  more  clinging  and  demonstrative;  she 
needed  expressions  of  tenderness;  she  had  totove  and  also 
to  be  loved  to  be  happy.  Madame  Bouvreuil  had  no  such 
need;  she  loved  others  profoundly,  but  although  she  valued 
their  love  in  return,  it  was  not  a  necessity  as  it  was  to 
Helene.  Like  her  mother,  Helene  was  very  domestic  in 
her  habits  and  tastes;  she  was  born  to  be  a  wife  and 
mother,  capable  and  loving  her  work. 

I  have  said  that  Madame  Bouvreuil  loved  her  son  with 
more  anxiety  than  she  showed  for  anything  else  ;  and  well 
she  might,  for  Octave  Bouvreuil  was  one  of  those  young 
men  who,  when  they  can  make  a  true,  clear-minded  woman 
love  them,  it  is  against  her  better  judgment,  and  the  love 
is  deeply  blended  with  fear  and  trembling.  To  some 
families  the  gift  of  beauty  seems  given  in  its  richest  full 
ness,  and  so  it  was  to  the  Bouvrcuils ;  this  son  was  one 
of  the  most  attractive  young  men  one  could  possibly 
imagine ;  he  was  of  just  height  and  proportions,  neither 
too  tall,  nor  under  size;  he  had  exquisite  hands  and  feet, 
like  his  mother ;  like  Helene,  every  movement  was  grace 
ful,  but  he  was  not  active  as  she  was— an  indolent  languor 
hung  around  him  that  was  indefinably  attractive.  His 
eyes  were  superb;  they  burned  and  glittered,  and  were 
the  only  part  of  his  body  that  did  not  seem  to  partake  of 
the  careless  indifference  that  appeared  to  be  part  and 
parcel  of  his  nature ;  he  had  a  steady  gaze  that  was  a 
little  embarrassing,  and  would  have  been  impertinent  had 
it  not  been  unconscious.  The  varying  expression  of  his 
eyes  was  no  index  of  his  character,  however,  for  they  were 
sometimes  grave,  then  gay,  then  stern,  then  irresistibly 
tender ;  and  I  do  not  believe  the  master  of  them  ever  felt 
all  these  changes  of  feeling,  certainly  not  so  often  as  the 
eyes  expressed  them-— it  would  have  bored  him  exces 
sively. 


3  2  COMPENSA  TION; 

He  had  a  well-outlined  face,  a  beautiful  mouth,  and  over 
the  upper  lip  curled  the  softest  brown  mustache,  which  set 
off  finely  his  superb  teeth  when  he  laughed ;  his  head  was 
good,  not  remarkable  in  its  shape,  but  gentlemanly  look 
ing;  his  hair  was  a  deep  chestnut,  that  curled  in  rich 
masses,  and  which  he  had  a  habit  of  throwing  off  from 
his  clear  brown  temples  in  a  picturesque  style  that  showed 
to  his  advantage  his  well-made  and  graceful  gestures ;  he 
was  so  handsome  that  his  very  presence  was  a  pleasure. 
There  was  something  of  the  quiet  concentrated  manner  of 
his  mother  about  him ;  but  while  it  arose  in  her  from  a 
truly  elevated  mind  and  character,  a  habit  of  looking  at 
things  en  grand,  in  him  it  came  from  coldness  and  indo 
lence.  He  was  eminently  distinguished  looking,  although 
without  any  air  of  native  nobility  about  him,  even  with 
all  his  beauty ;  he  was  gentle,  graceful,  and  polished  ;  had 
a  winning,  musical  voice,  and  a  little  earnestness  of  man 
ner  at  times,  as  if  he  wished  to  serve  you  particularly  and 
no  one  else,  which  was  very  agreeable,  even  though  one 
might  feel  right  sure  that  it  invai'iably  meant  and  ended 
in  nothing.  He  talked  well,  but  if  .the  conversation  grew 
earnest,  or  conflicted  with  his  feelings,  he  assumed  a 
steady,  calm  silence  which  \vas  very  gentlemanly,  but 
which  built  up  straightway  a  barrier  between  him  and 
those  who  loved  him,  and  who  would  fain  be  one  with 
him. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Octave  Bouvrcuil,  his  beauty  at 
tracted  me  as  beauty  always  does ;  his  sweet  low  voice, 
his  gallant,  elegant  manners  delighted  me;  but  I  did  not 
from  the  first  moment  feel  any  dependence  on  him,  and  it 
was  well  I  did  not,  for  it  would  have  bored  him  and  dis 
appointed  me ;  and  I  remember  thinking  as  I  sat  listening 
to  and  looking  at  him, — when  the  first  novelty  of  our  ac 
quaintance  made  him  display  himself  agreeably  before  me, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  33 

showing  off  all  his  fine  points, — how  miserable  any  woman 
would  be  who  loved  him,  and  how  thankful  I  was  I  had 
not  met  him  in  my  own  enthusiastic  spring  season  of 
life. 

He  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  what  men  call  "  life."  From 
the  age  of  eighteen  he  fcad  been  out  in  the  world  as  his 
own  master,  and  he  was  seven-and-twenty  when  I  came 
to  Peilz.  He  had  been  adopted,  when  very  young,  by  his 
aunt,  Octavie  Eperveil,  the  Principal  of  the  Peilz  College, 
and  she  had  taken  every  pains  she  could  to  both  educate 
and  spoil  him.  She  wished  him  at  some  time  to  take 
charge  of  her  institution,  but  this  was  an  affair  of  the 
future,  and  for  many  years  he  had  done  little  else  besides 
making  pleasant  but  useless  preparations  for  this  mythical 
position.  Some  winters  he  spent  at  Vienna,  or  Paris,  or 
some  of  the  great  continental  capitals,  under  the  pretence 
of  studying;  but  the  past  year  he  had  been  a  sort  of  tutor 
or  traveling  companion  to  a  young  Englishman  of  fortune. 
He  knew  everything  and  everybody;  was  well  versed  in 
literature  and  the  fine  arts;  with  a  graceful  smattering 
of  science;  and  was  the  most  charming  companion,  for 
the  mere  amusement  or  occupation  of  conventional  society 
life,  one  could  imagine.  His  aunt  thought  he  was  exactly 
what  he  ought  to  be,  and  yet  she  must  have  had  some 
misgivings  about  what  the  opinions  of  others  might  be, 
for  she  was  constantly  saying,  "  Octave  is  so  peculiarly 
fitted  by  nature  and  by  management  for  his  future  posi 
tion;  the  chief  of  an  institution  like  mine  does  not  need 
profundity  of  learning,  so  much  as  general  intelligence,  a 
popular  easy  manner,  and  gentlemanly  habits  and  pur 
suits." 

Well,  if  those  were  the  qualities  she  required,  Octave 
was  just  the  man  for  her  purpose,  as  he  certainly  had,  as 
much  as  any  man  I  ever  knew,  what  are  called  in  the 

4 


3  4  COMPELS  A  TION; 

world  "  the  habits,  requirements,  and  principles  of  a  gen 
tleman." 

And  now  I  come  to  the  last  member  of  the  little  family 
circle  of  the  Bouvreuils,  Kinnaird  Graham.  He  was  the 
very  opposite  in  every  way  of  Octave  ;  he  could  not  be 
called  handsome,  and  yet  there  were  in  his  appearance  all 
the  evidences  of  that  natural  nobility  of  character  so  want 
ing  in  Octave,  and  which  is  so  much  better  than  mere 
physical  beauty.  How  true  is  that  distinction  which  some 
clever  writer  has  made:  "Nobility  of  appearance  arises 
from  the  character,  and  is  the  work  of  nature ;  a  distin 
guished  air,  that  of  art:  one  is  born  with  a  person,  the 
other  is  acquired."  He  was  tall,  erect,  and  slender;  his 
head  was  a  fine  intellectual  one,  and  his  face  cold  and 
classic  in  outline  as  some  antique  bust;  his  brow  was 
always  slightly  knit,  and  his  clear-cut,  firm  lips  a  little 
compressed,  which  would  have  made  him  repelling  but  for 
the  serene  expression  of  his  thoughtful  brown  eye,  and 
winning  sound  of  his  kind  voice.  His  movements  and 
manner  were  as  quiet  as  Octave's :  with  one,  however, 
you  felt  that  a  total  absence  of  interest,  a  cui  bono  indif 
ference  caused  the  calmness;  with  the  other,  you  could 
almost  see  every  nerve  and  muscle  tightly  reined  up  for 
action  and  struggle  if  necessary.  He  talked  very  little, 
but  it  was  evident  his  silence  proceeded  from  thought  and 
preoccupation;  he  was  as  intelligent  as  Octave,  but  in  a 
different  way;  his  knowledge  was  positive,  exact,  and  pro 
ceeded  from  hard  study;  Octave's  from  a  natural  bright 
ness  and  an  early  intercourse  with  what  are  called  "  men 
of  the  world." 

From  the  first  moment  of  my  acquaintance  with  the  two 
young  men  I  commenced  drawing  a  contrast  between  them, 
and  as  years  went  by  and  my  intercourse  with  them  grew 
more  intimate,  this  contrast  shone  out  more  vividly.  As 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  35 

I  do  not  intend  to  develop  either  of  them  gradually  by 
any  events  in  this  account  of  my  new  life  at  Peilz,  I  will 
conclude  here  this  contrast  which  I  have  commenced,  and 
which  displayed  itself  more  strongly  month  by  month  to 
me;  then  in  the  account  I  give  of  their  different  acts,  as 
connected  with  my  little  recital,  will  be  shown  only  natural 
effects  proceeding  from  their  causes. 

Octave  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  brave,  generous 
fellow,  and  yet  I  never  saw  courage,  self-denial,  or  self- 
sacrifices  in  his  daily  acts,  although  in  some  emergencies 
excitement  did  make  him  perform  startling  acts  of  bravery 
and  generosity,  concentrating  years  in  one  ebullition,  and 
this  produced  more  effect  than  if  he  had  hourly  given  quiet 
evidences  of  a  truly  generous  nature  ;  this  was  the  reason 
why  Kinnaird  was  never  talked  of  by  any  one  ;  he  applied 
to  his  daily  life,  with  himself  and  others,  the  principles 
dictated  by  his  noble  generous  character,  without  regard 
to  effect,  and  therefore  he  produced  none.  With  one,  doing 
right  was  a  question  of  emotion ;  with  the  other,  a  ques 
tion  of  duty — or,  rather,  no  question  at  all ;  it  seemed  a 
matter  of  instinct.  Octave  gained  more  praise  for  some 
trifling  but  showy  act  of  generosity  than  Kinnaird  did  for 
his  constant  life  of  simple  duty  performance;  few  noticed 
his  influence;  indeed  it  was  only  after  living  with  the 
two,  and  suffering  from  the  cold  selfishness  of  the  one, 
that  you  learned  to  appreciate  the  unobtrusive  excellence 
of  the  other,  and  to  feel  that  he  was  a  truly  brave,  strong 
man,  on  whose  unwavering  character  you  could  rest  as 
securely  as  on  anything  human. 

Kinnaird  Graham's  youth  had  been  severely  disciplined. 
He  had  lost  father  and  mother  early  in  life,  and  had  been 
educated  at  Institution  Epcrveil,  where  he  was  glad  to 
obtain  a  sub-tutorship  to  bear  part  of  the  expenses  of  his 
education,  before  fairly  through  his  studies.  By  dint  of 


36  COMPENSATION; 

severe  application,  he  had  surmounted  all  the  obstacles 
naturally  surrounding  him,  and  had  risen  to  the  position 
of  a  useful  and  respected  assistant  professor  in  the  very 
institution  at  which  he  had  received  his  education.  All 
this  had  resulted  from  early  self-control  and  his  native 
dignity  and  reserve  of  character.  He  was  of  English 
birth  and  parentage,  and  had  wealthy,  proud  relatives, 
it  was  said ;  but  the  relationship  was  too  remote  to  give 
him  influence;  the  shaping  of  his  future  rested  on  his  own 
good  strong  energy  and  industry.  He  was  younger  than 
Octave  by  some  two  or  three  years,  and  Octave  always 
acted  impliedly  as  if  he  were  still  the  senior  and  Kinnaird 
the  junior,  although  Kinnaird  was  so  far  before  him  in 
usefulness  and  actual  position.  Kinnaird  seemed  to  show 
a  desire  to  be  cordial  with  Octave,  and  never  evinced  any 
restlessness  under  the  cool  gentlemanly  air  of  superiority 
which  Octave  affected ;  but  there  was  little  sympathy  be 
tween'  the  two,  as  might  well  be  imagined.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  Octave  thought  himself  the  finer  gentleman  of 
the  two;  like  his  aunt,  he  regarded  Kinnaird  as  a  good 
drudge,  or  one  of  his  subordinates,  and  he  expected  him 
to  possess  in  detail  all  the  industry  and  knowledge  neces 
sary  for  his  future  purposes.  When  he  spoke  of  him, 
which  was  rarely,  he  called  him  "  a  quiet,  good  sort  of 
fellow,  full  of  tedious  text-book  knowledge,  fitted  for  his 
position,  but  no  life,  spirit,  or  taste  in  him."  And  yet,  of 
the  two,  Kinnaird  was  better  fitted  than  Octave  for  life's 
purposes,  even  for  the  gay  worldly  life  he  and  his  aunt 
valued  so  highly ;  for  though  Octave  possessed  a  physical 
courage  that  would  have  led  him  up  unflinchingly  before  a 
storming  of  Sevastopol,  he  had  not,  like  Kinnaird,  a  moral 
courage  that  would  enable  him  to  face  and  pass  unscathed 
through  a  life  full  of  fiery  temptations. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  37 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE   BISE. 

OCTAVE  BOUVKEUIL  liked  new  pleasures,  new  places, 
and  new  people ;  therefore,  a  little  while  after  my  arrival 
at  Peilz,  as  I  came  under  the  category  of  the  last  named 
of  his  likes,  I  was  honored  with  his  attentions.  He  ac 
companied  me  daily  in  my  walks ;  to  him  I  owed  my 
first  introduction  to  Hauteville,  a  beautiful  Swiss  estate  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Peilz  ;  to  Chatelard  and  Les  Cretes, 
rendered  famous  by  Rousseau's  charming  descriptions  in 
that  excessively  fade  love-story,  "  La  Nouvelle  Heloise;" 
to  Blonay,  so  dear  to  the  lover  of  Middle  Age  legend; 
and  to  many  a  pretty  little  mountain  village  and  charming 
point  of  view. 

He  took  me  also  boating,  and  to  him  I  was  indebted  for 
my  first  hearty  fright  on  the  water.  We  had  a  habit  of 
going  out  on  the  lake  at  sunset,  although  constantly  coun 
seled  not  to  do  so  by  the  worthy  professor,  on  account  of 
the  sudden  changes  of  wind  which  take  place  on  these 
Swiss  lakes  at  sundown ;  the  bise,  a  northeast  wind,  which 
is  very  violent,  is  apt  to  spring  up  at  nightfall  and  lash 
the  calm  lake, into  a  fury  of  white-crested  waves.  But, 
notwithstanding  all  these  warnings,  I  had  great  confidence 
in  my  handsome  boatman,  and  though  I  am  a  nervous 
woman,  I  am  not  a  timid  one ;  then  there  is  a  spirit  of 
contradiction  in  human  nature  which  impels  us  to  brave 
sometimes  a  threatened  danger,  especially  when  the 

4* 


38  COMPENSATION; 

danger  is  an  attractive  one  and  there  are  many  chances 
of  escape. 

One  beautiful  afternoon  we  embarked  in  great  glee, 
leaving  Madame  Bouvreuil,  Dora,  and  Beau  standing  on 
th$  Leignitz  terrace,  watching  our  departure,  for  the  boat 
was  too  small  a  cockle-shell  to  hold  many  passengers ; 
moreover,  of  the  trio  Beau  was  the  only  one  who  had"  any 
desire  to  accompany  me. 

"  I  cannot  imagine,  Octave,"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil, 
as  he  lifted  me  with  graceful  courtesy  into  the  pretty  little 
dancing  boat,  "why  you  bring  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  all 
the  way  up  here  to  embark ;  the  Merle  terrace  is  nearer 
and  so  much  more  pleasant." 

"  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  does  not  know  the  Merles," 
he  answered  in  a  careless  manner,  as  if  only  half  hearing 
his  mother,  and  replying  at  random. 

,  "Nonsense!"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil,  laughing.  "You 
know  very  well  that  is  no  reason.  Any  one  of  our  family 
can  use  the  Chateau  terrace,  even  for  strangers,  if  we 
wish.  You  are  growing  very  ceremonious  all  at  once. 
But  I  trust,  Mademoiselle  Fauvette,  that  it  will  not  be 
long  before  you  do  know  our  friends  of  the  Chateau.  It 
is  the  family  of  our  good  pastor,  as  I  have  already  told 
you,  who  live  there.  I  promise  myself  great  pleasure  in 
introducing  them  to  you  ;  they  have  been  absent  from 
Peilz  since  you  came,  or  you  would  have  met  with  them 
long  since,  as  we  are,  especially  when  Helene  is  at  home, 
almost  daily  together.  They  are  expected  back  to-day, 
are  they  not,  Octave  ?" 

Octave  had  been  standing  as  if  waiting  for  his  mother 
to  stop  talking,  looking  down  on  the  pebbly  shore  with 
that  affected  air  of  courteous  patience  which  is  neither 
courtesy  nor  patience,  because  so  apparent  and  intended 
to  be  annoying.  As  sh.e  addressed  this  question  to  him, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  39 

he  shrugged  his  shoulders  saucily,  and  replied  in  a  cool, 
half  laughing  tone,  lighting  his  cigar  and  puffing  it  as  he 
spoke, — 

"  Upon  my  word,  madam,  you  should  have  told  me — 
puff — this  morning  that  you  wished  some  information — 
puff — puff — about  our  estimable  and  worthy  pastor's  family ; 
then — puff — I  could  have  inquired.  I  really — puff—  cannot 
inform  you;  nor — :puff — puff — puff — must  we  delay  much 
longer  even  to  listen  to  your  agreeable  conversation ; — puff 
— if  we  do,  we  shall  miss  one  of  the  prettiest  sunsets  of  the 
season  " — puff — puff. 

And  his  cigar  by  this  time  being  well  lighted,  he  bowed 
courteously  and  jumped  lightly  into  the  boat.  As  he  rowed 
off,  she  shook  her  finger  in  playful  menace  at  him,  crying 
out, — 

"  You  saucy  fellow !  Remember,  Mademoiselle  Fau- 
vette,  that  is  none  of  my  training." 

He  made  no  other  reply  than  a  polite  inclination  of  the 
head,  while  he  rowed  rapidly  away  from  the  shore.  The 
clouds  were  beautiful ;  some  hung  in  brilliant  masses 
around  the  summits  of  the  mountains,  looking  in  some 
places  like  higher  peaks;  others,  agitated  by  contending 
currents  of  air,  rolled  and  folded  together  like  huge  masses 
of  rich  drapery.  The  sun  shone  out  brilliantly,  and  hung 
its  round  red  orb,  SAvaying  as  it  were,  in  a  fiery  flood,  over 
the  dim  line  of  the  distant  Jura;  its  rays  shot  out  a  gor 
geous  stream  of  light,  bathing  the  whole  landscape  in  a 
golden  glow;  the  clouds  grew  purple  and  a  fiery  red,  and 
as  they  gathered  together  in  superb  folds,  hanging  cur 
tain-like  over  the  mountains  in  the  Rhone  valley,  I  fancied 
they  looked  like  royal  funeral  mantles. 

Octave  commenced  discoursing  eloquently,  using  Goethe's 
striking  theory  relative  to  clouds,  mountains,  and  air,  as  if 
it  was  his  own  original  idea,  for  he  could  appropriate  the 


4  0  COMPENSA  TION; 

thoughts  of  others  in  the  cleverest  manner  imaginable; 
and  I  listened  admiringly,  without  showing  that  I  was 
aware  of  the  ruse;  indeed,  his  graceful  poetical  elabora 
tion  of  the  simple  theory  made  it  so  much  his  own,  that 
I  felt  ready  to  pardon  his  unacknowledged  appropriation 
of  it. 

He  called  the  mountains  and  clouds  great  spirits,  war 
ring  with  and  striving  to  conquer  each,  other,  and  the  air 
a  pretended  neutral  power,  but  treacherously  in  league 
with  the  mountains,  thus  giving  them  the  mastery  over 
their  cloud-enemies.  He  dwelt  on  the  "  magnificent  come 
and  go"  of  the  pulsations  of  these  huge  granite  heights, 
their  electric  weapons,  their  attractive  and  repellent 
strength  ;  he  pointed  out  the  cloud  summits  which  hung 
so  solidly  over  some  peaks,  and  called  them  conquered 
mist-spirits,  held  immovable  by  the  relentless  mountains 
until  the  internal  labors  should  be  completed  for  their  final 
destruction.  Other  mountains  were  still  at  war  with  their 
cloud-enemies,  and  the  rolling,  and  flying,  and  changing 
about  of  the  huge  masses  of  vapor,  told  of  the  combat 
going  on  which  would  inevitably  terminate  in  a  complete 
rout  and  destruction  of  the  misty  warriors,  for  the  electric 
forces  of  the  mountains  would  make  them  fall,  Beelzebub- 
like,  in  rains,  fogs,  and  whirlwinds,  as  mortals  call  them, 
each  terrific  explosion  containing  huge  rebel  giants;  and 
after  the  destructive  rout  and  defeat,  the  treacherous  elastic 
air  would  spread  itself  invisibly  around  and  devour  the 
remains  of  the  vaporous  host. 

All  this  he  told  in  glowing  words,  with  his  rhapsodical 
brilliant  manner,  of  which  my  poor  resume  gives  but  a 
bleak  idea,  I  am  sure.  Then  he  directed  my  attention  to 
the  thin  cloud  which  hung,  as  it  so  often  did,  mantle-like 
around  Dent  de  Jaman.  We  observed  with  earnest  gaze 
its  evolutions  and  changes.  We  could  see  it  devoured,  as 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  41 

it  were,  by  some  invisible  power:  the  last  rays  of  the  set 
ting  sun  rested  on  it;  it  grew  purple  and  golden ;  its  edges 
detached  themselves  and  mounted  up  to  the  mountain  peak 
in  fine,  light,  fiery  threads,  looking  like  the  ribbons  drawn 
from  the  mouth  of  a  conjurer,  or  the  slender  thread  of  flax 
spun  off  from  a  swift-revolving  distaff.  At  last  the  whole 
brilliant  vapor  disappeared  under  the  mysterious  influence 
of  this  unseen  air-enemy.  As  the  last  fiery  thread  hung 
its  raveled  end  over  the  mountain  peak,  I  turned  toward 
the  west  to  look  at  the  clouds  hanging  above  the  sun,  and 
saw  a  long  black  spiral  cloud  ascending  into  the  sky  from 
the  port  of  V.,  which  was  to  the  west  of  us.  We  were 
always  cautious  not  to  embark  in  our  little  boat  until  after 
all  the  lake  steamers  had  passed,  but  this  cloud  told  plainly 
that  we  were  near  one,  unfortunately. 

"  Mr.  Octave,"  I  said,  "  surely  there  is  a  steamer 
at  V." 

I  had  to  repeat  my  remark  twice  before  he  heard  me, 
he  was  so  engrossed  in  watching  the  beautiful  cloud- 
weaving  in  the  unseen  hands  of  the  invisible  mountain 
spinner. 

"  Mille  pardons,"  he  cried,  starting  as  I  touched  his 
shoulder  and  pointed  to  the  ascending  smoke.  "  By  Jove !" 
he  exclaimed,  as  the  little  steamer  swept  out  of  the  port  of 
V.,  "that  is  the  Hirondelle,  as  I  live  !  I  thought  I  saw 
it  pass  when  we  were  in  the  garden  an  hour  since  drink- 
ing  our  coffee." 

•"  No,  I  remember  Well  that  was  the  '  Rhone,'  "  I  said. 

"  Eh  bien,"  he  replied,  with  a  cool  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
as  he  seized  the  oars.  "  You  must  summon  up  all  your 
courage,  for  I  shall  have  to  row  you  further  out  into  the 
lake,  for  I  cannot  possibly  reach  the  shore  against  this 
wind." 

5 


42  .  COMPENSATION; 

For  while  we  had  been  watching  the  beautiful  cloud- 
changes,  we  had  left  unnoticed  the  springing  up  of  the 
bise.  A  few  vigorous  strokes  of  the  oars  carried  us  out  of 
the  line  of  the  steamer,  which  came  puffing  by  us  a  few 
moments  after,  so  close  that  she  threw  over  us  a  shower 
of  the  sparkling  rain-drops  made  by  the  sharp  cut  of  her 
prow,  and  we  danced  merrily  up  and  down  in  the  swell 
she  left  in  her  wake.  Octave  looked  frowningly  up  at  the 
sky;  and,  after  the  rocking  of  the  Waves  had  subsided  a 
little,  he  seized  the  oars  with  more  eagerness  than  I  had 
ever  seen  him  show  in  anything.  The  bise  was  fairly  upon 
us,  and  the  waves  mounted  around,  in  great  rage,  threat 
ening  every  instant  to  engulf  us. 

He  rowed  with  intense  energy,  large  drops  of  sweat 
stood  on  his  forehead,  the  veins  in  his  neck  artti  on  his 
temples  looked  like  whipcords,  while  his  nostrils  dilated 
and  his  eyes  gleamed  fiercely — it  was  the  expression  of  a 
superb  animal  goaded  on  by  the  presence  of  danger.  I 
remained  perfectly  silent,  and  there  swept  up  before  my 
memory  vivid  recollections  of  the  different  times  in  the 
past  when  I  had  foolishly  trusted  myself  with  daring  male 
friends  behind  their  fast  trotters,  and  I  tried  to  imagine 
we  were  in  no  more  danger  than  I  had  been  then.  A 
grand  white-crested  wave  burst  over  us.  Octave  rested 
his  oars  and  panted  fiercely.  He  looked  at  me  earnestly : 
there  was  no  expression  of  fear  or  cowardice  in  his  face ; 
it  was  an  inquiring  look,  to  see  if  I  was  a  screaming  or 
fainting  woman.  I  returned  his  look  as  calmly  as  pos 
sible.  I  knew  that  \vas  no  time  to  weaken  or  discourage 
him  by  showing  any  of  the  feai;s  I  felt. 

"It  is  impossible,"  he  said,  "to  row  against  such  a 
sea."  And  his  words  came  ou^;  low  and  hissing  between 
his  set  teeth,  sounding  like  drops  of  hail  on  a  hot  furnace. 
"Could  you  light  me  a  cigar?"  he  asked,  after  a  few 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  43 

moments  of  silence,  for  he  did  not  dare  loose  his  hold  on 
the  oars. 

I  took  out  of  the  breast  pocket  of  his  gray  paletot  a 
cigar  and  match-box,  struck  a  light  with  hands  that  I 
could  not  keep  from  trembling,  and,  putting  a  cigar  in  bis 
mouth,  I  lighted  it.  He  puffed  it  as  coolly  almost  as  he 
did  the  one  a  half  hour  before  on  the  Leignitz  shore,  and 
sat  holding  on  to  the  oars  while  the  waveadashed  relent 
lessly  around  us.  As  long  as  there  had  been  a  hope  of 
reaching  the  shore,  he  had  struggled  bravely;  now  that 
hope  was  gone,  his  excitement  was  over,  and  he  looked 
as  calm  and  indifferent  as  usual,  puffing  his  cigar,  and 
gazing  steadily  out  on  the  waves  and  sky;  the  only  show 
of  emotion  he  displayed  was  in  the  elongation  of  his  eye 
lids,  through  which  the  brilliant  eye  glittered  curiously. 

When  I  had  first  discovered  the  steamer,  I  had  taken 
out  my  watch  to  see  what  time  it  was,  and  had  forgotten 
to  replace  it,  holding  it  in  my  hand  mechanically,  even 
while  I  lighted  the  cigar.  I  became  suddenly  conscious 
of  having  it,  and  touched  the  spring  of  the  cover  to  see  the 
hour, — as  if  human  time  was  of  any  consequence  to  me  I 
This  thought  rushed  over  me,  and  with  such  force  that  for 
an  instant  I  could  not  distinguish  the  marks  on  the  dial- 
plate;  at  last  they  stood  out  dimly,  and  I  saw  the  hands 
pointing  to  twenty  minutes  past  seven,  but  only  as  one 
sees  in  a  dream.  I  remember  closing  the  watch  and  put 
ting  it  quietly  up.  Then  I  unclasped  a  little  garnet  rosary 
from  my  wrist,  and  commenced  slipping  the  grains  through 
my  fingers,  endeavoring,  by  a  repetition  of  the  familiar 
prayers,  to  rouse  my  stunned  thoughts.  Were  they  prayers, 
those  words  that  fell  mechanically  from  my  lips  ?  Already 
my  body  and  soul  seemed  separated,  for  the  simple,  com 
prehensive  Lord's  Prayer,  the  beautiful  Angelical  Saluta 
tion,  and  the  childlike,  touching  appeal  of  St.  Bernard, 


44  COMPENSATION; 

passed  from  my  mouth,  but  did  not  bear  sense  or  mean 
ing  to  my  soul. 

My  mind  was  filled  with  thick  thronging  memories  of 
friends  far  from  me.  I  looked  appealingly  up  into  the  gray 
clouds  that  swept  to  and  fro  in  fierce  combat,  and  seemed 
to  see  their  faces  dimly  gazing  down  on  me ;  those  who 
loved  me,  and  those  over  whom  I  had  poured  the  full 
libation  of  my»own  love  without  sharing  even  "  the  wild- 
berry  wine"  of  their  hearts  in  return.  Ah  !  why  did  their 
faces  come  there  at  such  an  awful  moment!  I  had  no 
time  for  them.  My  thoughts  should  be  with  the  fast-ap 
proaching  solemn  future,  not  with  the  bitter  unavailing 
past;  and  yet  that  keen,  burning  sorrow  of  loving  longing 
filled  my  heart  and  brain,  and  I  sighed  out  my  lifeless 
prayers  with  agony.  Just  to  see  them  in  the  flesh  one 
instant ;  before  all  should  be  over,  to  meet  them  spirit  to 
spirit ;  but  for  the  space  of  a  breath,  and  in  that  last  mo 
ment  of  life,  surely  might  be  understood  the  great  intensity 
and  truth  of  the  love  I  had  felt  for  them.  On  went  the 
prayers,  and  this  hot  tide  of  mortal  yearning  toward  earthly 
things  rushed  rudely  by  the  side  of  the  holy  current. 

While  this  acute  human  pain  was  pulsating  within  me, 
and  darkening  with  noisy  agitation  the  moments  that 
should  have  been  still  and  resigned,  the  wind  tossed  the 
dense  clouds  aside,  sweeping  away  all  these  loved  but 
torturing  faces,  and  there  seemed  to  rise  in  the  pale  light 
two  other  forms  over  whose  graves  I  had  shed  the  bit 
terest  tears  that  can  be  shed  by  a  mortal — tears  not  of 
sorrow  for  them  but  for  myself;  then  for  the  first  time  the 
words  of  my  prayers  reached  my  soul.  I  grew  quiet  and 
still.  I  felt  strangely  detached  from  earthly  ties,  and 
thought  only  of  those  toward  whom  I  seemed  to  be  fast 
speeding.  All  these  emotions  passed  through  my  mind 
much  more  rapidly  than  any  words  can  express  them. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  45 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  dull,  rushing  sound.  I  knew  it  the 
instant  I  heard  its  muffled  plash ;  it  was  the  whirlpool  of 
the  Rhone  torrent !  Then  I  became  conscious  of  Octave's 
presence,  for  while 

"voyaging  through  those  strange  seas  of  thought  alone" 

he  had  faded  quite  out  of  not  only  my  thoughts,  but  even 
my  physical  sight.  He  leaned  forward  to  put  the  oars  in 
my  hands,  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  unfurled  the  little  sail. 
I  thought  he  was  mad,  for  I  had  not  noticed  that  the  wind 
which  had  swept  aside  my  torturing  spirit  faces  was  a 
wind  from  G.,  a  favorable  one  for  us,  and  that  the  bise 
had  passed  over.  While  he  was  unfurling  the  sail  a 
second  and  a  third  wave  dashed  in  on  us ;  it  was  a  dan 
gerous  expedient,  for  a  sudden  gust  of  the  capricious  wind 
might  easily  upset  us,  but  it  was  his  only  resource,  as  the 
current  was  growing  stronger  and  stronger,  and  in  a  few 
moments  we  would  have  been  inevitably  dragged  into  the 
whirlpool  of  the  mouths  of  the  Rhone.  I  fancy  Octave 
had  little  hope,  and  felt  that  he  would  rather  go  over  in  a 
struggle  than  wait  calmly  for  death.  But  the  sail  saved 
us ;  so  soon  as  it  was  up,  the  little  boat  scudded  over  the 
bounding  waves  along  with  the  wind,  light  as  a  soaring 
bird. 

Octave's  eyes  glistened  like  those  of  a  snake ;  he  gazed 
earnestly  forward ;  one  hand  grasped  firmly  the  sail  rope 
with  such  a  strong  gripe  that  I  saw  little  drops  of  blood 
oozing  out  from  the  grasp,  for  the  sail,  filled  with  the  wind, 
buried  the  cord  deep  into  the  flesh  of  his  hand,  and  the 
other  hand  managed  the  rudder.  We  were  only  a  few 
minutes  in  this  mad  rush  for  life,  but  it  seemed  hours ; 
and  in  a  little  while  we  were  able  to  land  about  seven  or 
eight  miles  above  Peilz.  My  companion  sprang  on  the 


46  COMPENSATION; 

shore  as  soon  as  the  well-directed  boat  rattled  up  on  the 
pebbles  of  the  beach. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  shouted  out  in  a  fierce  exulting  laugh; 
"  we've  gained  the  day!" 

Some  boatmen  ran  up  to  us  and  dragged  in  the  boat 
while  he  handed  or  half  lifted  me  out,  for  I  was  trembling 
and  very  weak.  He  laughed  with  thoughtless  boyish 
merriment  at  me. 

"Courage,  courage!"  he  cried;  "now  is  not  the  time 
to  give  up  after  holding  out  so  bravely  through  all  the 
danger.  Here,  drink  this."  And  pouring  into  the  little 
goblet-shaped  top  of  his  pocket  flask  some  wine,  he  made  me 
swallow  several  times  some  of  that  "  valor-giving  drink, 
good  sherris  sack."  After  I  had  revived  a  little,  he  said: 
"Now  if  you  will  take  my  advice,  you  will  walk  from 
here  to  Peilz ;  it  will  help  you  over  your  excitement  and 
save  you  from  being  ill." 

I  knew  he  was  right,  and  unpalatable  as  was  the  wise 
counsel,  I  took  his  offered  arm  and  tottered  along  the  lake 
road,  gaming  strength  as  I  advanced. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  light  me  another  cigar?"  he 
asked,  some  time  after  we  had  started;  "for  this  hand  of 
mine  is  too  lame  to  help  me  to  such  a  luxury." 

Lame  it  was,  indeed,  and  it  took  both  of  our  kerchiefs 
and  my  hat  veil  to  stanch  the  blood.  After  wrapping  it 
up,  and  making  of  his  broad  black  neck-ribbon  a  sling  in 
which  he  rested  the  lacerated  hand,  I  lighted  his  cigar, 
while  he  laughingly  recalled  the  solemn  lighting  of  the 
"funeral  torch,"  as  he  named  it;  and  then  he  described, 
with  graphic  but  sarcastic  humor,  my  absurd  holding  on 
to  the  watch,  "clutching  fast  to  old  Father  Time,"  he 
said,  and  the  still,  quiet  whiteness  of  my  face,  and  steady, 
unflinching  gaze  with  which  I  had  met  his  look  in  that 
fearful  moment. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  4*7 

"  I  felt  certain,"  he  added,  "  that  you  were  going  to  die 
game,  especially  when  I  saw  you  timing  our  run-away 
gait  to  eternity;  and  I  can  assure  you  it  was  my  greatest 
consolation,  for  it  would  have  bored  me  excessively  to 
have  had  my  last  moments  disturbed  by  feminine  shrieks 
and  faints." 

I  could  not  enjoy  his  gayety.  I  felt  too  solemn  to  ap 
preciate  even  the  most  exquisite  and  brilliant  humor.  I 
had  so  lately  stood  face  to  face  as  it  were  with 

"  the  pale-fronted  images  of  my  own  true  dead," 

that  the  chill  damps  of  the  grave  seemed  still  hanging 
around  me.  I  longed  for  the  warm  caressing  touch  of  a 
loving  human ;  and  kept  pace  willingly  with  the  swift, 
light  tread  of  my  companion,  looking  earnestly  forward  to 
the  end  of  our  journey,  while  he  rattled  on  with  unusual 
excitement;  for  the  near  approach  of  death,  and  his  sudden 
escape  from  it,  seemed  to  have  intoxicated  him,  and  his 
words  mounted  up  like  the  sparkling  beads  of  foam  on  a 
champagne  goblet. 

The  clouds  had  floated  off,  and  the  stars  shone  out  on  a 
sky  that  looked  like  steel.  The  Peilz  lights  glimmered  as 
we  descended  the  road  by  Maison  Monnet,  and  I  hailed 
them  with  more  gratitude  than  I  had  ever  felt  before  at 
their  sight.  At  last  my  trembling  feet  reached  our  door, 
and  on  the  inside  steps  of  the  entrance  we  met  Madame 
Bouvreuil.  Luckily  the  professor  was  absent,  therefore 
no  one  had  known  of  our  real  danger.  Madam  Bouvreuil 
had  felt  anxious  about  us,  but  had  concluded  that  Octave 
had  rowed  up  the  lake  to  another  landing,  at  the  com 
mencement  of  the  bise,  and  was  waiting  for  a  change  of 
wind  to  return.  We  had  agreed  to  say  nothing  of  the 
real  state  of  the  case,  therefore  I  pleaded  fatigue,  and 


48  COMPENSATION; 

went  immediately  to  my  apartments,  leaving  Octave  to 
take  tea  alone  with  his  mother. 

How  glad  I  was  to  reach  my  rooms,  to  hear  Beau's 
frantic  cries,  see  his  bounding  leaps,  by  which  he  testified 
his  joy  at  my  return,  and  be  able  to  look  again  on  Dora's 
honest,  good  face !  But  still  the  heavy,  stunned  feelings 
hung  over  me.  I  sat  by  the  open  window  in  silence,  and 
felt  as  one  does  when  awakened  from  a  terrible  nightmare  ; 
the  familiar  objects  of  furniture  and  books  seemed  almost 
strange ;  I  looked  at  Dora  while  she  prepared  the  evening 
meal,  and  poured  the  hot  water  from  the  steaming  little 
urn  on  to  the  tea  whose  fragrant  vapor  filled  the  air,  as  if 
I  had  never  seen  her  do  it  before.  I  ate,  almost  without 
tasting,  the  dejicious  anana  strawberries  and  cream,  and 
fed  Beau  with  sponge-cake  listlessly,  and  listened  to  the 
plashing  swell  of  the  naughty  lake,  as  its  beautiful  waves 
rose  and  fell  and  rippled  playfully  on  the  pebbly  beach ; 
then  I  gazed  out  on  the  starry  heavens  that  peeped  in  like 
little  consoling  angel  heads  between  the  branches  of  the 
large  horse-chestnut  tree  under  my  window,  and  wondered 
that  my  gratitude  for  my  strange  relief  from  danger  was 
not  more  lively.  But  there  was  no  bounding  chord  within 
me  to  sound  ;  I  was  unstrung  and  voiceless. 

While  trying  to  rouse  myself,  a  delicious  melody  came 
floating  on  the  air  from  a  brilliant-toned  piano  in  the  dis 
tance,  a  snatch  of  some  Sclavic  modulation,  so  peculiar  in 
its  rhythm  and  melody,  filled  with  fantastical  wildness,  and 
a  capricious  mingling  of  sadness  and  gayety.  Then  there 
was  a  wandering  over  the  keys,  detached  chords  leading 
to  curious  weird  resolutions,  as  if  vague  thoughts  or  the 
conversation  of  some  one  broke  in  upon  the  instrumentalist. 
Then,  tenderly  stealing  on  the  ear,  rose  up  softly  that  de 
licious  nocturne  of  Chopin,  in  -D  flat,  which  floated  and 
like  a  graceful  vapor  filled  witfr  volcanic  heat  and 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  49 

tinged  with  a  golden  violet  hue.  It  darted  to  and  fro  like 
the  reflected  beam  of  the  young  crescent  moon  on  the 
waves  of  a  southern  sea,  breaking  into  golden  sparkles 
or  flashing  with  phosphoric  light  across  the  waters. 

I  drew  Beau  close  to  me  and  let  him  sleep  in  my  arms, 
while  my  cheek  rested  on  his  soft  silky  coat,  and  I  gave 
myself  up  to  the  delicious  reveries  suggested  by  this  ex 
quisite  music.  Memories  of  beautiful  creations  in  paint 
ing,  poetry,  and  sculpture  came  before  me,  blended  with 
the  charms  of  the  flower,  cloud,  and  ocean  realm  of  nature. 
The  executant  at  one  time  appeared  to  trace  capricious 
arabesques;  then  Shelley's  exquisite  versification  seemed 
to  be  attained;  a  new  harmonic  formation  followed,  and 
there  lay  mirrored  in  the  glassy  flood  of  the  melody  the 
svelte  form  of  that  half  angel,  half  woman  creation,  An- 
gelini's  Eve,  sitting  in  graceful  questioning  reverie, 
meditating  over  the  first  sin.  With  flying  rapid  runs  and 
trills,  introduced  by  the  instrumentalist,  the  music  passed 
over  curious  modulations,  suspensions  that  were  like 
pleading  justifications  of  some  coming  event,  and  sad, 
solemn,  anticipated  tones,  followed  by  a  descent  of  notes, 
all  sounding 

"As  if  the  soul  of  melody  were  pent 
Within  some  unseen  instrument 
Hung  in  a  viewless  tower  of  air, 
And  with  enchanted  pipes  beguiled  its  own  despair."* 

The  instrumentalist  then  floated  off  into  that  other 
realm  of  feeling  belonging  to  'the  soul,  in  which  sensuous 
emblems  were  no  longer  suggested ;  there  was  not  the 
chaste  and  gracious  form  of  the  Italian  sculptor's  Eve  to 
be  seen,  but  the  pulsating  music  unveiled  the  heart  of  that 

*  Read's  "  Realm  of  Dreams." 

5* 


50  COMPENSATION; 

same  Eve,  innocent  still  though  fallen,  throbbing  with 
anxiety,  anguish,  and  fear;  the  sad  secret  of  love  once 
known,  her  peace  forever  gone. 

All  this  may  seem  fanciful,  but  so  that  music  sounded  to 
me  on  that  still,  solemn  August  night.  How  intensely  sad 
grew  the  fantastic  melodies  !  One  passage  after  another 
of  that  weird  master  followed,  each  wedded  to  the  other 
with  a  poesy  of  feeling  and  expression  as  correct  as  it  was 
effective.  There  were  fears',  and  sad  presentiments,  and  de 
vouring  jealousy,  and  inconsolable  sadness,  passing  like 
shadows  over  the  stream  of  harmony,  as  the  invisible 
fingers  swayed  to  and  fro,  holding  chords  with  magnetic 
power,  in  which  predominated  "those  mournful  black 
keys."  Gradually  the  flame  of  sad  melody  grew  fainter: 
it  languished.  Suddenly,  like  a  dying  lamp,  it  shot  up  a 
vivid  brilliant  light ;  then  abruptly  ceased,  as  the  hands 
seemed  to  throw  off  into  air  a  keen,  sharp  high  chord. 

I  drew  a  long  delicious  breath  ;  the  music  had  dissolved 
the  icy  death-damps  which  had  seemed  to  envelop  my 
whole  being,  and  I  lived  again.  The  silence  continued  for 
some  time,  broken  only  by  the  ripple  of  the  lake  waves 
and  the  rustle  of  the  sweet  west  wind  through  the  leaves 
of  a  young  acacia-tree  that  stood  near  the  rail  of  the  bal 
cony  on  which  I  was  leaning,  when  again  the  music 
began.  This  time  it  was  of  a  different  style.  A  brilliant 
symphony  poured  out  like  a  rich  flood  of  wine  ;  then  came 
the  richer  flow  of  a  fine  manly  baritone  voice  in  a  spirited 
passage  from  II  Bravo.  The  accompaniment  was  crisp 
and  clear,  and  told  well  against  the  voice  and  melody  in 
its  reiterated  martellements. 

"  The  Merles  have  come  back,"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil, 
entering  my  room  just  at  that  moment  to  bid  me  good 
night  and  inquire  how  I  felt  after  my  fatiguing  walk; 
"  and  that  is  Octave  singing  with  Marie." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  51 

"Surely,"  I  cried,  "it  is  impossible  that  a  woman's  touch 
can  produce  such  music  as  I  have  just  heard." 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  she  replied,  "  it  is  Marie  you  have  heard ; 
she  executes  wonderfully  well.  She  will  be  a  great  source 
of  pleasure  to  you ;  she  is  such  a  clever  girl,  and  good 
too  ;  I  am  sure  you  will  love  her.  She  is  totally  different 
from  my  Helene,  although  both  are  darling  girls  in  their 
way.  Sometimes  I  fancy  I  love  Marie  as  well  as  if  she 
were  really  my  daughter,  which  I  wish  she  was,"  she 
added,  laughing.  "  If  she  and  Octave  would  stop  their 
quarrels  and  settle  down  into  quiet  affianced  lovers,  like 
Kinnaird  and  Helene,  I  should  be  much  easier  in  my  mind 
about  Octave's  future  happiness." 

"  Then  Mr.  Graham  and  Helene  are  betrothed  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  Not  at  all,  as  Germans  understand  it ;  that  is,  we  have 
had  no  regular  betrothal ;  my  sister-in-law  would  have 
to  be  consulted,  and  my  husband  does  not  like  to  under 
take  such  a  difficulty.  Madame  Eperveil,  though  a  good- 
hearted,  excellent  woman,  is  an  odd  one ;  she  loves  to 
make  a  little  teasing  opposition  by  way  of  showing  her 
authority,  and  in  a  case  like  this  she  might  take  the  fancy 
of  giving  trouble,  so  we  have  concluded  to  let  the  affair 
rest  until  Kinnaird  should  have  some  independent  situa 
tion  offered  him ;  then,  when  they  are  all  ready  to  get 
married,  opposition  will  be  useless.  They  are  sincerely 
attached,  have  known  each  other  from  infancy,  and  Kin 
naird  is  an  excellent  young  man,  in  every  way  calculated 
to  make  Helene  happy." 

"And  Mr.  Octave  and  Mademoiselle  Merle?"  I  in 
quired,  as  the  glorious  full  finale  of  the  Bravo  passage 
swelled  out,  and  voice  and  accompaniment  rode  bound- 
ingly  on  the  air  together,  filling  the  ear  with  sounds  as 
brilliant 


52  COMPENSATION; 

"as  meteors  fleet, 
Struck  from  the  invisible  feet 
Of  Night's  wild  coursers." 

"Oh!"  said  Madame,  smiling,  "they  have  been  quar 
reling  and  making  up  since  childhood.  We  cannot  any 
of  us  tell  how  that  affair  will  end.  They  parted  in  a 
ferocious  pet  some  weeks  ago,  but  I  fancy  separation  has 
done  them  both  good,  and  they  have  made  up  their  diffi 
culty,  as  I  hear  him  singing  there." 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  Merle  a  capricious  lady-love  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  .  She  is  a  straightforward,  earnest 
girl,  full  of  enthusiasm  and  deep  feeling;  she  is  Octave's 
equal  in  mind,  very  brilliant  as  well  as  good,  and  for  that 
reason  would  have  more  influence  over  him  than  a  woman 
of  weaker  mental  parts,  for  she  will  hold  him  by  the  in 
telligence  as  well  as  by  the  heart." 

Dear  Madame  Bouvreuil !  She  who  was  so  just  in 
everything  else  was  showing  herself  unjust  on  this  sub 
ject.  While  talking  of  Helene  and  Kinnaird,  she  had 
dwelt  only  on  Kinnaird  being  calculated  to  make  Helene 
happy ;  but  when  speaking  of  Octave,  it  was  Marie  upon 
whom  she  placed  the  burden  of  responsibility. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  53 


CHAPTER    V. 

MY   NOVEL. 

THE  following  day  Octave  was  summoned  to  Berlin,  to 
meet  his  aunt  and  sister,  in  order  to  accompany  them 
home,  and  we  all  persuaded  Madame  Bouvreuil  to  go  with 
him ;  thus  the  professor  and  I  were  left  quite  alone,  for 
Kinnaird  Graham  had  been  absent  for  some  days,  with  a 
detachment  of  boys  from  Institution  Eperveil,  on  a  most 
interesting  pedestrian  excursion  in  the  Savoy  Alps,  to 
visit  there  a  little  Catholic  village,  which  is  so  over 
shadowed  by  the  mountains  towering  around,  that  the 
sun  shines  on  its  streets  but  one  day  in  the  year.  Every 
season  there  was  a  party  of  the  students,  especially  among 
the  new-comers,  who  felt  a  natural  curiosity  to  visit  the 
village  on  that  day,  in  order  to  be  present  at  the  rejoicing 
fete  celebrated  by  the  paysans  over  this  angel  visit  of  God's 
blessed  sunlight,  and  this  year  it  had  fallen  to  Kinnaird's 
lot  to  guide  and  manage  the  little  party. 

Left  thus  to  myself,  a  positive  fit  of  industry  took  pos 
session  of  me.  I  ordered  my  own  time  and  Dora's,  and  I 
fancy  I  would  have  made  Beau  work  also  if  I  could.  I 
laid  down  rules  of  occupation  in  the  most  tiresome  man 
ner.  What  monuments  of  learning  and  goodness  there 
would  be  in  this  world,  if  persons  ever  once  adhered  to 
the  rules  their  exacting  minds  and  consciences  at  certain 
seasons  devise  !  But,  alas !  like  poor  Sheridan,  they  not 
only  content  themselves  with  making  the  discovery  that 


54  COMPENSATION; 

their  aim  is  too  high  for  poor  mortal  strength,  but  frame 
an  excuse  from  that  for  falling  far  short  of  it. 

By  way  of  keeping  myself  to  regular  work,  I  resumed 
the  daily  lessons  I  had  commenced  taking  soon  after  my 
arrival,  in  Italian  and  German,  of  Professor  Bouvrcuil. 
This  was  a  delightful  occupation,  for  my  preceptor  was  a 
most  pleasant  teacher ;  he  was  thoroughly  grounded  in 
the  genius  and  construction  of  modern  languages ;  and 
then,  his  memory  was  so  full  of  history  and  biography, 
in  short,  of  every  subject  connected  with  mental  pursuits, 
that  to  study  with  him  was  like  opening  the  flow  of  a 
sparkling  stream  over  a  dry  land  ;  the  current  of  learning 
poured  out  generously,  beneficently  enriching  the  minds 
over  which  it  flowed. 

His  own  tongue  being  French,  of  course  all  my  studies 
were  made  in  it,  and  this  led  to  a  critical  examination  of 
my  knowledge  of  this  language,  which  I  had  kept  up  for 
many  years,  more  by  reading  than  study  or  conversation. 
He  suggested  compositions  on  various  subjects,  in  order 
to  give  me  a  better  command  of  its  construction,  and  I 
soon  became  interested  in  the  study  of  idioms  and  the 
curious  formation  of  vernacular  phrases,  and  had  all  sorts 
of  out-of-the-way  works,  on  the  genius  of  the  language, 
supplied  to  me  by  my  master:  such  as  Charles  Nodier's 
clever  sarcastic  dictionary,  which  afforded  me  as  much 
amusement  by  its  cutting,  ironical  ridicule  of  the  French 
Academy,  us  it  did  information  by  its  scholarly  analysis 
of  the  sparkling  language,  of  which  this  author's  own 
beautiful  prose  is  such  an  ornament  and  model. 

But  I  could  not  confine  myself  entirely  to  study.  I 
found  I  needed  some  other  pursuit  to  give  me  relaxation. 
In  former  times  music  would  have  been  my  comfort,  but 
in  the  state  of  mind  and  feeling  I  was  in  then,  it  tortured 
instead  of  relieving  me,  and  brought  on  melancholy  mor- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  55 

bid  thoughts,  which  unfitted  me  for  study  or  any  healthy 
mental  pursuit.  Reading  proved  a  great  resource ;  and, 
as  I  was  beginning  to  command  the  literature  of  three 
languages  besides  my  own,  I  ought  to  have  found  suffi 
cient  relaxation  in  enjoying  the  creations  of  others;  but 
the  books  would  fall  from  my  hands,  and  thought  grow 
busy  in  following  out  my  own  speculations  and  creations. 
If  I  read  a  psychological  autobiography  or  romance,  it 
would  set  me  to  analyzing  my  own  mind,  and  to  peering 
down  with  curious  scrutiny  into  recesses  and  depths  I 
had  never  sounded  before.  Recklessly  I  would  unfold 
and  examine  the  most  delicate  petal  of  feeling,  no  matter 
how  scarlet  might  be  the  tinge  of  suffering  caused  by  the 
relentless  inquiry,  and  I  often  found  myself  dwelling  on 
acts  and  mistakes  of  the  past  over  which  I  had  had  no 
control,  and  condemning,  with  morbid  restlessness,  inno 
cent  causes  from  which  had  proceeded  sad  effects. 

One  day,  while  occupied  in  framing  different  results  and 
imaginary  scenes,  producing  happiness  that  had  never  ex 
isted,  I  exclaimed  to  myself,  "I  will  write  a  novel!"  I 
fancied  that  I  felt  a  pressing  necessity  to  express  all  these 
imaginary  conclusions  for  my  own  mental  satisfaction ; 
and  yet,  when  I  strove  to  render  into  words  my  idea  of  a 
fiction,  it  remained  unexpressed.  The  harmonies  and 
chords  were  there  in  my  mind  and  memory,  but  the  re 
solving  into  melodic  form  would  not  come.  I  had  had 
experience  enough  to  have  supplied  sufficient  incident  for 
the  most  startling  fiction.  I  had  felt  passionate  emotions, 
and  had  seen  their  effects.  It  seemed  as  if  my  mind  and 
memory  were  just  ready  to  produce  fruit ;  but  some  power 
ful  influence  worked  against  me  and  deprived  my  pro 
ductions  of  originality,  under  whatever  form  I  represented 
them.  And  this  was  the  cause  :  there  Was  a  burning  tide 
of  overflowing  feelings  struggling  to  find  vent ;  but  pas- 


56  COMPENSATION; 

sion,  even  tenderness,  every  warm  emotion  that  enriches 
and  beautifies  a  narrative  or  creation,  especially  a  woman's, 
lay  stunned  and  lifeless  from  the  experience  of  the  past. 

After  various  fruitless  efforts,  I  gave  up  the  attempt 
discouraged,  and  concluded  I  had  not  the  disposition  or 
capability  to  find  comfort  by  throwing  my  own  experience 
into  verse  or  prose  or  imaginary  heroes  and  heroines.  I 
should  have  been  happier,  may-be,  if  I  could,  but  I  could 
not.  I  often  read  "Jane  Eyre"  and  "Aurora  Leigh," 
and  sighed,  as  I  wished  to  possess  gifts  like  the  two  mar 
velous  women  who  have  created  those  two  fine  artistic 
narratives ;  and  then,  when  sad  at  the  thought  of  my 
inefficiency,  my  inability  to  relieve  my  pulsing,  throbbing 
brain,  I  would  read  "  Leila,"  and  thank  Heaven  that  I 
could  not  express  the  bitter  tide  of  resentment  at  injustice 
as  that  other  great  woman  has  done — 

"That  large-brained  woman,  and  large-hearted  man — 
True  genius,  but  true  woman," 

whose  writings  show  so  plainly  what  Mrs.  Browning  calls 

"the  wind-exposed  distorted  tree 
Blown  against  forever  by  the  curse 

Which  breathes  through  nature.     Oh,  the  world  is  weak  ! 
The  effluence  of  each  is  false  to  all : 
And  what  we  best  conceive  we  fail  to  speak." 

But,  in  order  to  gratify  this  impelling  desire  for  mental 
creation,  I  turned  from  imaginary  beings  and  scenes  to 
history,  to  give  me  characters  and  events  on  which  I 
could  bring  my  imagination  and  experience  to  bear,  and  I 
hoped,  by  speaking  through  them,  to  avoid  the  personality 
that  wounded  me.  I  searched  out  my  favorite  characters. 
There  they  all  stood  before  me,  clothed  by  my  fancy  and 
memory  in  correct  costume,  exact  in  detail ;  but  whenever 
I  endeavored  to  use  them,  it  was  like  taking  the  lifeless 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  57 

stone  effigies  over  their  monuments.  I  could  not  put  life 
and  breath  into  them  ;  and  yet,  so  many  of  them  had  heart- 
warm  incidents  in  their  histories  which  connected  them 
closely  with  my  sympathies. 

The  half-told  romance  of  the  gay,  beautiful  widow, 
Joanna  of  England,  and  her  cousin,  the  Black  Prince; 
the  vain,  frivolous,  but  fascinating  Marguerite  of  Navarre, 
and  her  impetuous  lover,  the  unfortunate  Constable  de 
Bourbon,  who  threw  away  his  love  on  a  heartless  woman 
and  his  honor  and  fame  to  gratify  his  temper;  Mary 
Tudor  of  England,  and  her  deep  abiding  love  for  her  cold 
husband,  Philip  of  Spain;  and,  blended  with  this  narra 
tive,  could  be  woven  the  silvery  gleaming  thread  of  calmer 
romance,  the  friendship  so  tender  that  it  was  almost  love 
felt  for  her  by  her  cousin,  that  pure,  great  man,  Cardinal 
Pole ;  Mary  of  Scots  and  Bothwell,  and  a  host  of  these 
sweet  love-stories  which  touch  a  woman's  heart  the 
quickest,  passed  a  leisurely  examination  in  my  mind. 

Then  swept  up  before  me  women  nearer  my  regard, 
Anne  Clifford,  Countess  of  Derby,  and  her  beautiful 
mother,  that  Countess  of  Cumberland  whose  virtues  and 
charms,  disregarded  by  a  neglectful  husband,  were  com 
memorated  in  "deathless  verse"  by  the  poet  Daniel,  who 
loved  her  with  a  reverential  love  such  as  one  feels  for 
gentle,  beautiful  saints.  To  merit  such  pure  love  and  win 
such  immortality  as  was  bestowed  on  her  in  that  ex 
quisite  "Epistle"  of  the  poet's,  in  Avhich  the  sublimest 
lessons  of  resignation  and  noble  disregard  of  human  in 
justice  are  taught,  a  woman  might  be  willing  to  suffer 
sorrow.  What  proud  consolation  should  have  thrilled 
her  high,  chaste  heart,  as  she  read — 

"  I  see  you  labor  all  you  can 

To  plant  your  heart  and  set  your  thoughts  as  near 
His  glorious  mansions  as  your  powers  can  bear, 
Which,  madam,  are  so  fondly  fashioned 


58  COMPENSATION; 

By  that  clear  judgment;  that  hath  carried  you 

Beyond  the  feeble  limits  of  your  kind — 

As  they  can  stand  against  the  strongest  head 

Passion  can  make;  inured  to  any- hue 

The  world  can  cast,  that  cannot  cast  that  mind 

Out  of  her  form  of  goodness;  that  doth  see 

Both  what  the  best  and  worst  of  earth  can  be." 

Ma.ny  hours  of  sweet  pondering  I  gave  to  this  charm 
ing  mother  and  daughter  ;  then  passed  on  to  another  one 
of  my  favorite  characters  in  history,  Marguerite  of  Austria, 
daughter  of  the  lovely  Mary  of  Burgundy  ;  and  she  became 
my  chosen  heroine,  because  I  fancied  I  could  find  more 
material  to  work  with  in  her  own  life,  as  connected  with 
history,  which  would  save  me  from  drawing  on  my  own 
experience  or  imagination  for  incidents.  I  searched  out 
a  neat  little  blank-book,  given  me  for  a  journal  by  a  friend, 
and  which  had  a  nice  clasp  lock ;  in  it  I  began  my  won 
drous  tale.  What  laudable  industry  I  evinced  in  that  com 
mencement  !  I  wrote  the  title  and  motto  on  the  first  page, 
taking  her  famous  mot  or  device  for  the  motto, — 

"  Fortune,  infortune,  une  forte  une." 
"  In  fortune  or  misfortune  there  shall  be  one  woman  strong  of  heart." 

Then  I  collected,  on  the  first  pages  of  the  neat  industrious- 
looking  book,  all  that  my  memory  could  tell  me  of  her 
life, — little  incidents  that  proved  her  intelligence  and  happy 
disposition,  her  merry,  witty  expressions  in  her  girlhood, 
when  she  was  sent  wandering  about  from  one  European 
court  to  another  in  search  of  a  husband, — "  she  did  not 
wonder  that  fruit  should  not  ripen  on  a  year  when  mon- 
archs  forgot  their  oaths  and  troth-plights."  I  talked  to 
the  worthy  professor  about  that  epoch  of  history  con 
nected  with  her  life,  and  took  down  notes  from  his  con 
versation.  I  hunted  up  books  on  costume,  not  many  to 
be  found  unfortunately  in  Peilz ;  then — I  stood  still.  My 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  59 

materials  were  all  collected ;  but  my  first  chapter  was  a 
dead  failure.  I  wished  it  to  be  striking  and  vivid ;  it  did 
not  possess  the  least  originality  or  life.  How  I  envied 
James  his  possession  of  Wouvermann's  white  horses! 
Two  young  cavaliers  "pricking  along  the  grassy  road," 
or  even  oue,  would  have  helped  me  amazingly. 

At  last  I  hit  upon  what  I  imagined  fondly  was  a  capital 
idea :  I  opened  with  her  shipwreck  voyage  to  Spain.  I 
gave  as  spirited  a  description  as  possible  of  her  calm, 
philosophical  preparation  for  drowning ;  the  quiet  wit  of 
her  epitaph,  which  she  wrote  and  fastened  to  the  folds  of 
her  robe, — 

"  Ce  gist  Margot,  la  gente  demoiselle, 

Qui  ha  deux  maris,  et  s'y  m'ourt  pucelle." 

"  Here  lies  Margret,  the  young  gentlewoman  who  had  two  husbands, 
and  yet  died  a  maid." 

I  was  fairly  launched;  such  a  relief!  I  described  her 
landing,  her  marriage,  her  boy-husband,  and  his  mother 
Isabella  of  Spain,  the  loving  wife  who,  with  all  her  tender 
ness  for  her  selfish  husband,  had  the  power,  so  seldom 
possessed  by  a  loving  woman,  of  preserving  her  personal 
independence.  Then  the  sudden  death  of  the  young  bride 
groom,  and  the  return  of  the  girl-widow  to  her  Austrian 
home,  I  dwelt  on.  To  be  sure,  with  all  the  aid  that  his 
tory  gave,  I  had  to  admit  that  my  first  chapters  were  dull. 
However,  I  comforted  myself  with  the  thought  that  it 
was  a  historical  novel,  and  that  it  did  not  comport  with 
the  dignity  of  such  a  fiction  to  be  gaudy  and  brilliant  in 
commencement ;  it  should  advance  leisurely  and  with  re 
pose  ;  it  would  be  impertinent  in  the  first  chapters  of  such 
a  book  to  go  trotting  off  familiarly  like  any  common  story. 
Ah,  that  blessed  gift  of  self-esteem  !  What  a  soothing 
comfort  it  is !  what  a  fine  atmosphere  it  creates  around 
us  !  in  it  we  float  and  soar,  and,  no  matter  what  others 


6  0  COMPENSA  TION; 

may  say  or  think,  we  are  content,  for  it  finds  excuses  for 
everything,  softens  down  each  defect ! 

"And  every  author  must  possess  it,"  I  said  one  day  to 
myself,  apologetically,  as  I  found  myself  indulging  rather 
too  conceitedly  in  excusing  praise  over  my  novel,  "  or  how 
else  should  one  ever  have  the  courage  to  publish  a  book?" 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  61 


CHAPTER  VI. 

NEW  ACQUAINTANCES,      ' 

TIRED  out  with  close  application,  and  feeling  a  little  dull 
in  "  Margaret  of  Austria,"  the  August  weather  also  grow 
ing  too  oppressive  for  any  kind  of  mental  exertion,  I  spent 
a  great  deal  of  time  in  the  open  air  and  woods.  I  now  ap 
preciated  the  advantage  of  Octave's  assistance,  given  me 
the  first  weeks  of  my  arrival,  by  which  I  had  obtained  pleas 
ant  places  to  visit.  Hauteville  and  Les  Cretes  were  my 
favorite  resorts ;  and  often  Dora,  Beau,  and  I  would  leave 
our  house  in  Peilz  at  early  morning,  with  an  India  basket 
of  two  compartments,  containing  in  one  food  for  the  mind, 
and  in  the  other  the  quite  as  needful  food  for  the  body,  and 
in  some  part  of  these  beautiful  places  stay  until  nightfall. 

Hauteville  is  situated  on  the  side  of  Mount  Pleiades,  on 
the  road  to  old  Blonay.  It  is  not  a  very  spacious  estate, 
nor  is  the  chateau  remarkable  for  any  architectural  beauty ; 
but  the  situation,  which  is  very  fine,  gives  it  some  invalu 
able  landscape  points  of  beauty.  The  park  is  the  grand 
feature  of  the  place,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  more 
lovely  spot :  long  avenues  of  trees ;  a  mountain  torrent 
gliding  peacefully  through  one  part  and  breaking  out  into 
a  wild  cascade  in  another  ;  hills  and  slopes  and  elevations, 
and  openings  from  which  can  be  seen  one  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  views  in  the  world,  for  they  command  the  sight  on 
the  west  and  south  of  the  rugged  Savoy  Alps,  Dents  du 
Midi,  and  the  mountains  of  the  Rhone  valley,  with  the 

6 


6  2  COMPENSA  Tl  ON; 

more  pastoral  Yaudois,  spreading  ont  its  richly-cultivated 
terraces  of  vineyards,  on  the  east  and  north  ;  there  is  the 
whole  grand  view  from  Mount  Yelan  to  Jura  and  Peilz, 
and  the  lake  shore,  dotted  with  nestling  villages  beneath, 
like  a  living  border  to  the  blue  waters. 

Then  Les  Cretes,  the  famous  "Bosquet  de  Julie,"  was 
another  one  of  the  places  I  loved  to  visit.  This  is  a  little 
cluster  of  hills  nearer  the  lake  shore  farther  east,  and  over 
hanging  the  fine  lake  road,  with  winding  hilly  walks,  cov 
ered  with  a  superb  bosquet  of  chestnut-trees.  Some  of  the 
old  trees  are  still  standing,  and  I  often  thought  of  the  sad, 
wild  enthusiast  Rousseau,  while  sitting  under  their  shade, 
and  fancied  I  could  see  him  coming  there  at  early  morning 
when  he  had  risen  from  solemn  feverish  dreams, 

"  Which,  like  winged  winds,  had  borne 
To  that  silent  isle  which  lies 
'Mid  remembered  agonies — 
The  frail  bark  of  his  lone  being, 
And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 
Close  beside  the  helm  again," 

Here  he  must  have  sat  and  gazed  over  the  beautiful  ex 
panse  spread  out  before  him  of  mountain,  forest,  and  Avave, 
and  drank  in  draughts  of  inspiration  as  he  dwelt  over  the 
resolving  harmonies  of  his  fiction  and  tried  to  picture  forth 
"one  green  isle  in  his  deep,  wide  sea  of  misery."  Surely 
if  any  place  in  nature  could  give  soothing  thoughts  to  this 
"  self-torturing  sophist" — whose  minor  triads  in  romance 
would  modulate  from  minor  to  minor,  instead  of  following 
natural  rules  and  rising  into  a  clearer,  higher  key — Les 
Cretes  was  well  calculated  for  this  gracious  service ;  for 

"There  was  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 
Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 
And  the  light  and  smell  divine 
Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  63 

Above  hung  Chatelard,  whose  very  name  seems  fraught 
with  poetic  loveliness  ;  and  it  is  as  beautiful  as  the  dreams 
of  the  most  imaginative  poet  could  make  it.  One  after 
noon,  Dora  and  I,  after  spending  the  day  at  Les  Cretes, 
wandered  up  the  beautiful,  well-made  road  to  this  fine  old 
chateau.  It  is  much  larger  and  more  imposing  near  to 
than  when  seen  from  the  lake  road.  It  consists  of  one 
grand  square  tower,  and  was  built  in  1441,  by  a  certain 
Jacques  de  Guinguin,  on  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  tower 
called  "  Castellum  Arduum."  It  is  on  the  very  summit  of 
a  hill  three  hundred  and  seventy  feet  above  the  lake,  and 
this  bill  is  covered  with  terraced  vineyards  from  summit 
to  base. 

We  entered  the  large,  old  court-yard  gate,  and  passed 
out  down  into  the  narrow  terrace  walk  which  winds  around 
at  the  foot  of  the  castle  on  the  side  opposite  the  lake,  and 
which  is  a  species  of  hanging  garden,  as  it  were,  having 
espaliers,  fig,  and  apricot-trees  trained  up  against  the  court 
yard  walls,  and  rose-vines,  intermingled  with  other  sweet 
climbing  plants,  covering  the  stone-border  wall  which  forms 
its  division  from  the  first  vineyard  beneath.  Pots  of  bril 
liant  exotics  were  ranged  along  the  walk,  and  luxuriant 
reseda  vied  with  vervain  to  fill  the  air  with  sweet  odors. 
The  view  from  this  narrow  walk  was  charming.  Below 
us  lay  spread  out  vineyard  after  vineyard,  lyin-g  in  terraces, 
one  below  the  other,  filled  with  golden  fruit  ripening  in  the 
August  sun ;  then  came  Tavel  and  Clarens,  and  then  the 
glassy  glittering  lake.  The  sun  was  just  setting  behind 
Jura,  sending  up  its  flamelike  rays  above  the  horizon,  gild 
ing  with  a  red  light  clouds  and  mountains  ;  just  above  the 
Rhone  valley  bung  a  young  harvest  moon,  with  its  attend 
ant  star ;  a  variety  of  shades  floated  over  the  landscape, 
and  an  opal-like  glory  seemed  to  hang  above,  beneath,  and 
around  us. 


64  COMPENSATION; 

As  I  stood,  lost  in  contemplation  of  this  rapturous  scene, 
I  heard,  with  some  vexation,  voices  near  me,  and  thinking 
they  might  be  some  of  the  residents  of  the  chateau,  to  whom 
1  was  a  stranger,  I  turned  to  leave  the  place,  and  met,  face 
to  face,  two  ladies.  I  bowed,  and  prepared  to  pass  them, 
when  the  elder  one  of  the  two  said :  "  Pray  do  not  let  us 
disturb  you ;  we  have  come  hei*e  purposely  to  meet  you  ; 
we  have  called  frequently  on  you  at  Professor  Bouvreuil's, 
but  you  have  been  engaged  or  out  every  time  ;  and  this 
afternoon  when  we  called  again  the  professor  told  us  we 
might  find  you  at  Les  Cretes  or  here,  and,  as  we  intended 
taking  this  walk,  we  concluded,  if  we  should  be  so  fortu 
nate  as  to  encounter  you  during  our  promenade,  we  would 
take  the  liberty  of  presenting  ourselves,  as  we  really  wish 
to  contribute  what  little  we  can  toward  making  your  new 
home  in  Peilz  pleasant  to  you.  I  am  Cecile  Merle,  and 
this  is  my  niece,  Marie.  I  am  sure  you  have  heard  the 
Bouvreuils  talk  of  us  enough  to  feel  half  acquainted  with 
us  ;  so  pray  let  us  lay  aside  ceremony,  and  forget  that  we 
have  not  known  each  other  always." 

She  said  this  in  a  sweet,  languid,  lingering  voice,  and 
extended  both  her  hands  to  me  with  a  frank  courtesy,  as 
sincere  and  warm  as  her  words.  She  was  a  woman  of 
mid-age,  neither  handsome  nor  ugly,  but  very  pleasant- 
looking,  tall,  slight,  and  fair ;  everything  about  her  be 
spoke  a  kindly,  gentle  disposition.  She  spoke  French  in 
the  slowest  Swiss  style,  but,  being  a  great  purist  in  her  lan 
guage,  this  peculiarity  took  away  the  peasant  sound,  and 
gave  more  music  to  her  words  than  if  she  had  used  the 
quick,  sharp,  hailstone  accent  of  the  Parisians,  so  much 
affected  by  the  well-educated  Swiss.  She  was  the  only 
and  maiden  sister  of  Mr.  Merle,  the  pastor  of  the  Peilz 
Constitutional  Church,  and  had  been  his  companion  from 
their  orphan  childhood,  and  his  housekeeper  and  a  second 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  65 

mother  to  his  only  child  from  the  time  of  the  early  death 
of  his  wife,  which  had  taken  place  in  the  second  year  of 
their  marriage.  Everybody  loved  "  Tante  Cecile,"  for  this 
was  the  name  every  one  gave  her,  she  was  so  gentle,  lov 
ing,  and  indulgent. 

Of  course,  after  so  frank  an  introduction,  no  stiffness 
could  exist,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  all  three  leaning 
over  the  parapet  wall  admiring  together  the  sunset.  -Soon 
after,  Dora,  who  had  been  around  the  corner  of  the  castle 
gathering  some  yellow  acacia  leaves,  came  up  with  Beau, 
and  I  introduced  this  very  prominent  member  of  my  little 
domestic  trio  to  my  new  friends.  He  barked  most  inso 
lently  at  them,  and  received  their  proffered  courtesies  and 
caresses  with  gruff  growls  iu  his  usual  uncivil  manner,  and 
Marie  told  him  he  needed  all  his  beauty  to  make  him  en 
durable. 

While  she  stooped  to  examine  his  various  fine  points, 
to  which  Dora  with  partial  pride  always  directed  the  at 
tention  of  strangers, — the  long,  black,  silky  ears  with 
fiery  tan  lining,  the  rich  tan  spots  over  the  large,  melan 
choly  brown  eyes,  and  the  finely-formed  muzzle  and  silky 
tan-colored  fringe  to  his  little  legs  and  flexile  paws, — I 
observed  also  with  equal  interest  my  new  acquaintance. 
Octave  had  made  himself  sufficiently  charming  to  me, 
during  the  time  that  the  novelty  of  our  acquaintance  had 
lasted,  for  him  fo  make  me  feel  interested  in  seeing  and 
knowing  the  woman  he  was  supposed  to  love — the  woman 
who  might  be  his  wife.  I  noticed  that  she  was  very 
small,  but  her  head  was  superb.  It  was  not  too  large  in 
proportion  to  her  form,  and  yet  the  shape  and  carriage 
were  as  grand  as  the  Pompeiian  Sappho,  which  beautiful 
bust  hers  always  recalled  to  me.  The  golden  sunset  at 
mosphere,  I  thought,  gave  her  luxuriant  brown  hair  its 
peculiar  tinge  ;  but  I  afterward  found  that  it  was  its 

6* 


6  6  CO  MP ENS  A  TION; 

natural  hue.  I  have  never  seen  more  beautiful  hair  than 
that  of  Marie  Merle ;  it  was  so  long  and  thick  that,  when 
unloosened,  it  enveloped  her  slight  form  like  a  drapery, 
its  silken  ends  sweeping  the  ground.  Her  features  were 
very  regular:  the  brow  and  eyes,  and  delicate  nose  with  its 
quivering  nostrils,  bore  a  striking  resemblance  also  to  the 
beautiful  antique  Sappho  I  have  already  mentioned ;  but 
there  the  likeness  ended,  for  the  mouth  and  chin  were 
totally  different :  no  soft,  voluptuous  beauty  hung  around 
them  ;  the  lips  were  delicate  and  firm,  and  they  had  a 
varying  expression,  sometimes  not  very  agreeable,  because 
almost  mocking  and  sarcastic  She  was  not  generally 
considered  pretty,  and  this  was  because  her  face  was  so 
powerfully  affected  by  her  feelings ;  notwithstanding  the 
exquisite  outline  of  the  upper  part  of  her  face,  I  have 
seen  i-ts  effect  entirely  destroyed  by  the  influence  of  a  cold 
or  discouraged  mood ;  a  dull,  gray,  stony  shade  seemed 
to  hang  around  her  at  such  times,  as  if  the  soul  was  ab 
sent  ;  but  when  pleased  or  animated,  it  was  like  the  light 
ing  up  of  a  finely-cut  transparent  onyx  head;  every 
feature  glowed  and  pulsated  with  beautiful  life. 

Her  little  delicate  fingers  played  with  Beau's  long  ears; 
for  he  quickly  yielded  to  the  powerful  magnetic  gift  she 
possessed,  and  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  such  infantile 
hands  on  a  woman ;  the  fingers  were  slender,  tapering, 
and  so  flexible  that  they  could  be  turned  back  to  touch  the 
upper  part  of  the  wrist  without  pain.  She  was  quite  as 
cordial  as  her  aunt,  though  not  so  gentle.  She  had  a 
positive,  rather  abrupt  manner  about  her,  which,  if  she 
had  been  a  large  woman,  might  have  appeared  coarse  and 
uncultured  at  first  sight;  but  she  was  so  delicate  in  form, 
her  voice  had  such  a  melody  in  it,  and  there  was  that  un 
mistakable  presence  of  genius  in  her  which  rendered  even 
these  defects  of  manner  attractive.  I  looked  at  her  critic- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  67 

ally  from  the  first,  as  one  examines  a  piece  of  sculpture, 
a  gem,  or  a  painting ;  but,  from  the  very  first  moment  of 
our  acquaintance,  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  ever  be 
longing  to  Octave  Bouvreuil.  Had  I  been  a  man,  I  should 
have  become  his  rival  on  the  spot ;  as  it  was,  I  am  sure  I 
stood  many  times  in  his  light  when  in  the  loving  presence 
of  his  mistress. 

The  sun  sank  lower  and  lower  behind  Jura,  sending  up 
long  rays  across  the  sky  some  time  after  its  setting;  then 
we  turned  to  leave  the  chateau  terrace.  As  we  descended 
the  fine  road,  we  stopped  to  read  the  inscription  carved  on 
the  stone  embankment  wall,  which  told  of  the  building  of 
the  road  by  some  Sieur  de  Chatelard,  and  the  completion 
of  it  under  some  Dame  Jaqueline,  his  widow,  nee  some 
other  lordly  name  of  old  Savoisien  descent ;  then  we  lin 
gered  by  the  picturesque  fountain  in  the  main  street  of  the 
little  village  of  Tavel,  while  Tante  Cecile  inquired  after 
the  well-doing  of  some  old  Swiss  grandam ;  then  we 
skirted  Les  Cretes  and  entered  the  shady  road  that  led 
through  pretty  estates  and  by  the  sides  of  high-walled 
vineyards,  until  it  joined  the  lake  road  near  Maison 
Monnet.  The  young  moon  silvered  the  road,  creeping  in 
between  the  branches  of  the  trees ;  the  sky  still  looked 
golden  around  the  sharp-cut  edges  of  the  mountains ; 
women  passed  us  with  straw  hottes,  or  baskets,  fastened 
on  their  shoulders,  filled  with  the  evening  meal  of  Iheir 
goats,  and  around  them  hung  the  long  grass  and  vine- 
branches,  a  bulky  but  not  a  heavy  load;  and  men,  with 
wooden  brandes  strapped  on  their  backs  and  implements 
of  labor  in  their  hands,  returning  home  to  the  second 
evening  meal,  after  a  long  day  spent  at  work  in  their  vine 
yards.  It  is  not  possible  for  people  to  be  more  steadily 
industrious  than  these  same  Yaudois  peasants  are  in  the 
culture  of  their  vineyards ;  their  houses  and  domestic  life 


6  8  COMPENSA  TION; 

are  all  neglected  for  this  work ;  all  the  year  round  they 
are  in  them,  except  when  the  snows  of  the  two  first  winter 
months  drive  them  reluctantly  into  their  dark  uncomfort 
able  homes ;  men,  women,  and  children — every  generation 
from  grandparent  to  grandchild — unite  in  the  labor  and 
feel  an  equal  interest.  But  no  married  woman  can  gather 
a  basket  of  grapes  from  her  own  vineyard  and  sell  them 
in  the  public  markets,  without  the  permission  of  her  hus 
band  ;  he  may  have  spent  his  spring,  summer,  and  autumn, 
like  the  Prodigal  Son  in  the  parable,  "  in  riotous  living," 
and  she  and  her  children  may  have  done  all  the  needful 
work  to  bring  the  fruit,  with  the  gracious  aid  of  the  sun, 
to  autumn  perfection ;  yet,  after  all  this,  she  holds  no 
ownership  in  republican  Helvetia  over  one  bunch,  even  to 
exchange  it  for  bread  for  her  children. 

Can  it  be  true,  that  which  the  inhabitants  and  advocates 
of  despotic  governments  have  so  often  told  me  triumphantly, 
that  under  no  governments  are  women  so  despotically 
treated,  and  hold  so  few  independent  rights,  as  under 
republics  ?  But  we  did  not  talk  on  such  mooted  points  as 
this  during  our  twilight  and  moonlight  walk  from  Chate- 
lard  to  Peilz.  We  got  on  the  subject  of  music  in  this  way: 
it  was  on  hearing  me  sing  in  a  low  tone,  to  a  Neapolitan 
melody,  this  verse  from  a  little  song  in  the  Neapolitan 
patois,  which  was  recalled  to  me  by  the  tender  smile 
which  graced  Marie's  mouth  and  softened  down  its 
natural  severe  expression : 

"  Quant'  e  doce  chella  Vocc.i) 
Quant'  e  bello  chillo  riso, 
Tu  te  cri  dempara  di  so, 
Quanno  sta  vicino  a  te.'' 

As  I  sang  these  words  in  a  low  voice,  playfully,  she 
laughed,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  intended  compliment, 
and  said :  "  I  must  tell  you  that  my  father  and  aunt  have 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  69 

listened  with  great  delight  to  your  singing ;  for  we  can 
hear  you  quite  well  at  the  chateau." 

"And  you?"  I  asked  with  a  laugh;  "of  course  my 
singing  has  also  given  you  pleasure,  although  you  only 
mention  your  father  arid  aunt,  has  it  not?" 

"  I  am  not  very  fond  of  vocal  music,"  she  answered 
frankly,  "  unless  united  to  the  orchestral  accompaniment 
and  effect  of  the  opera.  Simple  salon-singing  by  amateurs 
tires  me,  it  is  so  bleak.  I  miss  the  rich  harmony  of  in 
strumentation." 

"  Marie !"  said  her  aunt,  in  a  remonstrative  tone. 
"  You  are  a  little  too'  candid  for  courtesy." 

"  By  no  means,"  was  her  answer.  "  I  have  told  the 
truth,  and  I  am  sure  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  would  rather 
I  should  have  said  what  I  have,  than  evasively  compli 
mented  her.  What  little  I  have  heard  of  her  music  has 
proved  to  me  that  she  is  too  good  a  musician  to  prefer 
unmeaning  compliments  to  the  truth.  It  is  a  mere  matter 
of  taste,  after  all.  But  I  think  I  should  like  your  ballad- 
singing;  there  is  an  improvising  tone  you  sometimes  give 
it  which  is  totally  distinct  from  and  superior  to  the  style 
in  which  you  sing  operatic  passages." 

"  Pray  do  not  think  that  your  niece's  clever  and  just 
criticism  can  offend  me,"  I  said  to  Tante  Cecile,  seeing  her 
look  anxiously  at  Marie.  "  I  am  sure  she  is  right,  so  far 
as  it  applies  to  my  own  singing,  and  I  have  often  thought 
the  same  thing ;  like  her,  I  am  not  very  fond  of  operatic 
passages  off  the  stage,  and  that  is  why  I  cannot  sing  them 
with  as  much  pleasure  or  with  so  much  abandon  as  a  sim 
ple  ballad."  Then,  turning  to  her,  I  took  her  little  hand, 
and  put  it  in  my  arm  cordially,  holding  it  affectionately,  to 
prove  to  her  my  perfect  satisfaction  with  her  candor,  say 
ing,  as  I  did  so  :  "I  have  heard  you  also ;  but  so  remark 
ably  fine  is  your  execution,  and  particularly  your  expres- 


70  COMPENSATION; 

sion,  that  I  could  scarcely  credit  Madame  Bouvreuil  when 
she  told  me  that  it  was  a  woman ;  now  that  I  see  you,  I 
feel  still  more  surprised.  How  can  such  tiny  fingers  per 
form  such  marvels  ?  There  is  a  grasp,  a  power,  and  also 
a  pertinacity  in  the  music  I  have  heard,  that  seems  impos 
sible  for  a  woman  to  possess." 

"  Then  you  do  not  think  a  woman's  clear  perception  and 
quick-feeling  heart  able  to  produce  as  much  as  a  man's 
muscles  ?"  replied  Marie,  sharply.  "  I  am  afraid  you  are 
like  many  others.  You  have  not  yet  reached  the  knowl 
edge,  that  true  music  does  not  come  from  labor  of  the  body 
so  much  as  from  strength  and  feeling  in  the  soul." 

I  laughed  heartily  at  her  playful  petulance. 

"  Oh,  I  am  in  earnest,"  she  continued,  her  mouth  as 
suming  its  most  provoking  expression  ;  "  about  music  I 
am  very  rigid." 

"  And,  consequently,  unjust,"  I  answered ;  "  of  course, 
as  "all  'poets  born,  not  made,'  are.  Because  the  thing 
comes  easy  to  you,  because  you  can  by  force  of  natural 
cleverness  cover  over  or  dispense  with  grammar  rules,  I 
will  answer  for  it  you  will  have  no  patience  with  less  gifted 
ones  like  myself." 

"  Yes,  I  shall,"  she  cried  merrily  ;  "  I  shall  have  great 
patience,  or  pretend  to  have,  whenever  you  play  humble 
and  modest,  as  you  are  doing  now." 

"No,  I  assure  you,"  I  said,  "I  am  not  playing  either 
humble  or  modest.  I  have  often  felt  of  myself  what  pretty 
Brulette  said  of  poor  Joset,  in  Madame  Sand's  Maitres 
Sonneurs.  Do  you  remember  it  ?" 

"  No :  repeat  it  to  me." 

"  '  Joset,  I  can  very  well  believe  that  all  this  is  in  thy 
head,  but  I  am  not  sure  of  its  coming  out.  To  wish  and 
to  be  able  are  two  things.  To  dream  and  to  execute  differ 
greatly.  I  know  that  thou  hast  in  thy  ears,  or  in  thy 


aR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  71 

brain,  or  in  thy  heart,  the  true  music  of  the  good  God,  be 
cause  I  have  seen  it  in  thy  eyes  when  I  was  little,  and  when 
more  than  once  taking  me  on  thy  knees  thou  didst  say  to 
me  with  a  charming  air,  "  Listen,  do  not  make  any  noise, 
and  endeavor  to  remember  it."  Then  I  would  listen  faith 
fully,  and  I  could  only  hear  the  wind  which  rustled  in  the 
leaves  and  the  water  which  rung  its  little  foam-bells  over 
the  pebbles  ;  but  thou  !  thou  couldst  hear  other  things,  and 
thou  wast  so  assured  of  it  that  I  became  so  likewise.' " 

"  Beautiful  !"  exclaimed  Marie,  with  beaming  face. 
"  Tante  Cecile,  I  must  positively  read  Les  Maitres  Son- 
neurs.  You  know,  of  course,  Mademoiselle  Pauvette,  that 
Madame  Sand's  works  have  been  to  me  forbidden  books; 
but  I  think  papa  and  Tante  Cecile  must  be  more  indulgent, 
and  let  me  draw  inspiration  and  information  from  this  ar 
tistic  woman's  writings." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  I  said,  "  that  Madame  Sand  allowed 
her  passions  and  resentments  to  dictate  to  her  so  much 
oftener  than  her  judgment  and  taste.  To  the  artist-stu 
dent,  however,  many  of  her  works  are  invaluable.  The 
most  objectionable  of  her  writings  appear  to  have  been 
written  during  a  transition  state  of  her  nature,  for  in  them 
we  find  principles  and  opinions  different  from  her  better 
works,  and  plots  and  characters  developed,  and  offensive 
subjects  dwelt  upon,  repulsive  as  well  to  good  morals  as 
to  good  taste.  She  made  a  mistake,  according  to  my  fancy, 
in  unsexing  herself;  in  wishing,  or  rather  demanding,  for 
our  sex  the  indulgences  and  weaknesses  of  men,  resentful 
at  the  injustice  meted  out  to  the  daughters  of  Eve;  de 
spising 

'the  gauds  and  armlets  worn  by  weaker  women  in  captivity,' 

she  has  contented  herself  in  breaking  and  casting  away 
chains  as  useless  to  contend  against  as  the  pretty  jeweled 


72  COMPENSATION; 

ornaments.  She  has  not  striven  to  make  women  stronger 
for  well-doing,  but  slie  has  claimed  for  us  what  we  do  not 
want,  license  for  evil-doing.  To  smoke  cigars,  haunt  cafes, 
and  wear  pantaloons,  seems  to  have  been  her  first  crude 
idea  of  woman's  rights.  But,  setting  aside  all  this,  and 
overlooking  her  melodramatic  Byronic  rhapsodies,  Madame 
Sand  is  a  most  suggestive  writer  to  the  artist." 

"You  have  read  Liszt's  Chopin  ?"  asked  Marie  eagerly. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  and  he  gives,  in  his  description  of 
Madame  Sand,  just  the  idea  I  wish  to  convey  of  this  re 
markable  woman,  this  one  of  the  three  great  literary 
women  of  our  day. " 

"  Three  ?"  repeated  Marie  inquiringly. 

"The  written  recognition,"  I  answered,  "of  Elizabeth 
Browning  and  Charlotte  Bronte,  entitles  us  to  class  this 
great  Frenchwoman  with  her  equally  great  English  sis 
ters." 

We  had  wandered  into  the  Leignitz  grounds,  and  were 
sitting  on  the  broad  upper  platform  of  the  flight  of  steps 
leadirig  down  to  the  lower  terrace.  The  moon  was  just 
sinking  behind  the  Corneilles  de  Bise,  peaks  of  the  Savoy 
Alps  ;  the  waves  of  the  lake  washed  musically  up  over  the 
pebbly  beach  ;  the  snipes  screamed,  Rousseau's  becassines, 
sounding  like  necessary  discords  in  a  composition  rendered 
tame  by  too  perfect  harmonies.  We  sat  for  a  few  minutes 
in  silence ;  then  Marie  asked, — 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Liszt  says  of  Madame  Sand 
in  the  description  of  a  soiree  at  Chopin's  ?" 

"  I  remember  the  description  you  allude  to,  but  not  the 
particular  passage  ;  pray  repeat  it,"  I  answered,  for  I  loved 
to  hear  the  sound  of  my  new  young  friend's  voice,  and 
judge  of  her  taste  and  character  by  her  language  and  choice 
of  passages  in  her  reading. 

"  It  is  after  he  speaks  of  Madame  Sand's  being  one  of 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  f3 

those  elect,"  said  Marie,  "  who  perceive  the  beautiful  un 
der  all  the  forms  of  art  and  nature,  and  also  of  the  divine 
word  to  be  obtained  from  close  intercourse  with  nature, 
that  word  which  lies  hidden  in  her  infinite  harmonies, — 
harmonies  composed  of  graceful  outlines,  exquisite  sounds, 
lights,  shades,  noises,  and  warblings ;  then  he  adds:  'To 
have  listened  early,  like  Madame  Sand,  to  the  whisperings 
by  which  nature  initiates  the  privileged  to  her  mystic  rites, 
is  one  of  the  appanages  of  the  poet ;  to  have  learned  of  her 
to  fathom  that  which  man  dreams,  when  he  in  his  turn 
creates,  and  which  in  his  works  of  all  kinds  he  uses  and 
adapts  like  nature,  the  fracas  and  the  warblings,  the  ter 
rors  and  the  delights,  is  a  gift  more  subtle  still,  which 
Madame  Sand,  as  woman  and  poet,  possesses  in  a  double 
right,  by  the  intuition  of  her  heart  and  her  genius." 

"  I  do  not  wonder,"  said  Tante  Cecile,  laughing,  "  that 
you  are  so  anxious  to  read  the  books  of  that  naughty  un- 
sexed  woman,  when  she  is  described  in  sucji  a  fascinating 
style  to  you ;  and  now  that  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  has 
come  to  your  aid,  I  suppose  permission  must  be  given  to 
you." 

"It  depends,  dear  Mademoiselle  Merle,"  I  answered, 
"  entirely  upon  the  character  of  the  young  girl  into  whose 
hands  Madame  Sand's  books  are  placed,  and  the  kind  of 
education  she  has  received.  There  are  many  girls  to 
whom  her  books  would  be  very  injurious  ;  but  I  fancy  your 
niece  has  sufficiently  clear  notions  of  right  and  wrong, 
which  will  enable  her  to  pick  out  the  good  grain  and 
throw  away  the  chaff.  Moreover,  she  need  not  read  the 
objectionable  books  ;  for  example,  those  written  under  the 
influence  of  resentment  against  her  husband's  unmanly 
tyranny  and  dishonesty,  or  those  in  which  she  wishes  to 
advance  her  St.  Simonian  principles." 

"  Mrs.  Browning,"  said  Tante  Cecile — for  the  Merles, 

7 


74  COMPENSATION; 

like  the  Bouvreuils,  were  good  English  scholars,  and  quite 
familiar  with  English  literature  —  "Mrs.  Browning,  of 
whom  you  just  spoke,  I  remember  has  written  two  very 
beautiful  sonnets  to  Madame  Sand.  -As  we  are  in  such 
a  quoting  mood,  Mademoiselle  Fauvette,  before  we  leave 
this  terrace,  pray  repeat  '  The  Desire,'  if  you  can  remem 
ber  it." 

Luckily,  Mrs.  Browning's  poems  were  in  my  basket, 
and  by  the  fading  light  of  the  moon,  aided  by  my  memory, 
I  read  it  aloud  to  them,  and  our  conversation  was  closed 
by  this  generous  and  just  poem  of  Mrs.  Browning. 

"  Thou  large-brained  woman  and  large-hearted  man, 
Self-called  George  Sand!  whose  soul,  amid  the  lions 
Of  thy  tumultuous  senses,  moans  defiance, 
And  answers  roar  for  roar,  as  spirits  can ; 
I  would  some  mild  miraculous  thunder  ran 
Above  the  applauded  circus,  in  appliance 
Of  thine  own  nobler  nature's  strength  and  science, — 
Drawing  iwo  pinions,  white  as  wings  of  swan, 
From  thy  strong  shoulders,  to  amaze  the  place 
With  holier  light !     That  thou  to  woman's  claim, 
And  man's,  might  join  beside  the  angel's  grace 
Of  a  pure  genius  sanctified  from  blame; 
Till  child  and  maiden  pressed  to  thine  embrace, 
To  kiss  upon  thy  lips  a  stainless  fame." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  75 


CHAPTER    VII. 

MY   FIRST   VISIT   TO   MARIE   MERLE. 

ON  my  return  that  evening  I  found  Madame  Bouvreuil; 
but  she  had  come  back  alone,  having  left  her  son  and 
daughter  with  their  aunt,  who  was  to  be  detained  at  G. 
a  few  days  on  business.  Two  or  three  days  after  meeting 
the  Merles  at  Chatelard,  they  sent  for  Madame  Bouvreuil 
and  me  to  drink  tea  with  them.  Mr.  Merle  lived  in  the 
habitable  part  of  the  old  Tour  de  Pierre,  or  Peilz,  which 
stood  on  the  borders  of  the  lake,  and  had  been  built  in 
1249  by  le  petit  Charlemagne,  Pierre  of  Savoy,  a  famous 
son  of  that  family,  who  mingled  the  blood  of  the  counts 
of  Savoy  with  all  the  reigning  houses  of  Christendom. 
His  sister  Beatrix,  although  only  a  simple  Countess 
of  Provence,  married  her  four  beautiful  daughters  to  the 
principal  European  monarchs  of  that  epoch.  One,  Sanchie, 
was  an  empress;  another.  Eleanor,  the  queen  of  Henry 
III.  of  England,  whose  husband  estranged  his  nobles  and 
people  to  pay  court  to  his  lovely  wife  and  her  foreign 
train  ;  the  two  others  were  selected  by  Blanche  of  Castile 
as  daughters-in-law;  Marguerite  became  the  wife  of  the 
saintly  Louis  IX.,  and  Beatrix  the  wife  of  his  brother, 
the  warlike  Charles  of  Anjou,  who  defeated  that  hero  of 
old  romance,  Dante's 

"  Bion'do  era  e  bello  e  di  gentile  aspetto," 

the   unfortunate    Manfred,  and    ascended   the   throne  of 
Naples,  the  first  of  that  Neapolitan  house  of  Anjou,  whose 


76  COMPENSATION; 

women,  like  those  of  the  Stuart  race,  were  celebrated  for 
their  beauty  and  their  misfortunes ;  from  the  first  Joanna, 
"so  lovely  and  so  sad,"  to  the  last  daughter  of  the  line, 
the  imperious,  broken-hearted  daughter  of  the  Troubadour 
King  Rene,  Margaret  of  Anjou. 

This  Tower  of  Peilz,  and  the  little  village  attached,  had 
been  built  and  fortified  by  Pierre  of  Savoy,  at  the  time  when 
he  stood  at  the  zenith  of  his  power,  after  he  had  received 
the  homage  of  the  lords  of  Eastern  Helvetia  and  the  sei 
gneurs  of  Berne  and  Morat,  and  had  taken  his  father's  place 
as  Duke  of  Savoy.  The  little  village  of  Peilz  has  still  the 
remains  of  the  old  walls  and  fosse,  which  form  a  northern 
boundary  to  it.  In  passing  out  of  our  own  street  in  the 
village,  and  taking  the  road  which  comes  up  from  the 
tower  on  the  lake  that  leads  out'  to  Hauteville  and  "old 
Blonay,"  we  always  pass  under  a  grand  old  arch,  which 
is  part  of,  and  on  which  rises,  the  beautiful  spire,  with  its 
ogive  windows,  of  the  Peilz  church,  built  also  by  Pierre. 
This  arch  spans  the  road,  and  from  the  church,  on  both 
sides,  extend  the  wall  and  fosse  of  the  ancient  fortifica 
tions. 

This  village  and  tower  Pierre  built  to  command  that 
side  of  the  lake,  as  he  built  the  one  at  Martigny  to  protect 
himself  at  the  Pass  of  St.  Bernard,  and  the  one  at  Evian 
to  control  the  southern  shore  of  the  lake ;  and  on  the  ruins 
of  Count  Wala's  prison,  Zillium,  he  raised  the  present 
castle,  so  celebrated  by  the  great  English  poet,  who,  if  he 
had  known  better  the  history  of  that  remarkable  place 
and  its  more  meritorious  heroes,  would  have  devoted  his 
verse  to  the  praise  of  a  much  more  interesting  martyr 
than  the  renegade  priest  and  unworthy  Protestant,  Bon- 
nivard. 

He  was  an  ambitious  and  warlike  prince,  this  Pierre  of 
Savoy,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  have  erected  his 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  77 

aspiring  house  into  a  European  monarchy,  and  had  a  king 
dom  of  Helvetia  ranked  among  the  sovereignties  of  Chris 
tendom.  "  Fier,  hardi  et  terrible  comme  un  lion,  si  preux 
qu'on  1'appelait  le  second  Charles  Maygne,  et  sachant  se 
tenir  tellement  qu'il  devait  mettre  a  subjection  moultz  de 
gens ;  et  quand  il  se  fut  raontre,  tous  se  rangerent  autour 
de  sa  personne,  criant  a  Fenvi,  Yive  notre  redoute  Sei 
gneur  !"  says  the  old  chronicler  of  this  hero,  whose  history 
is  so  mingled  with  poesy  and  legend  that  it  quite  loses 
itself  in  those  hazy  regions,  while  that  of  his  no  greater, 
only  more  successful  rival,  Rodolph  of  Habsburg,  is  fami 
liar  to  every  schoolboy.  >s, 

As  we  approached  the  chateau,  Madame  Bouvreuil  and 
I  talked  over  these  historical  associations,  which  hang 
around  every  old  ruin  and  wall  in  Europe.  In  America 
we  have  as  beautiful  nature  as  one  finds  in  Europe  ;  we 
have  huge  forests,  immense  inland  seas,  floodlike  rivers, 
great  waterfalls,  and  mountains  whose  white  snows,  violet 
vapors,  and  graceful  outlines  are  as  lovely  as^  the  most 
celebrated  European  ranges.  But  in  Europe  every  road 
and  every  old  castle,  and  almost  every  stone,  is  as  a  page 
of  history.  The  American  scholar  can  scarcely  feel  the 
reality  and  life  of  all  that  he  studies  of  olden  times  until 
he  visits  Europe ;  then  the  tales  of  old  chronicler  and 
bard  take  form  and  shape  to  him  and  possess  a  living 
memory. 

Only  one  tower  and  side  building  of  the  chateau  had 
been  repaired  and  kept  in  habitable  order ;  the  other  tower 
and  side  were  quite  in  ruins,  and  its  architectural  beauty 
made  of  it,  as  of  the  fine  old  Peilz  church  and  old  wall  and 
fosse,  favorite  studies  for  the  lovers  of  the  picturesque. 
The  habitable  parts  were  the  tower  and  side  extending  on 
the  terrace  overhanging  the  lake,  near  the  little  port  of 
Peilz.  The  entrance  was  by  a  large  gate,  near  the  habit- 

7* 


78  COMPENSATION; 

able  tower.  One  part  of  the  court-yard  wall  had  formed 
also  the  wall  of  the  castle  chapel ;  the  chapel  had  disap 
peared,  but  a  window  remained  in  the  wall,  whose  ogive 
top  gave  it  its  date;  this  formed  a  picturesque  frame  to  a 
bit  of  blue  sky,  and  it  was  decorated  with  hanging  fes 
toons  of  lichen  and  ivy,  and  other  graceful  pendants  of  the 
scarlet  bindweeds  that  crept  over  the  old  walls,  combining 
with  the  velvety  moss  and  delicate  maiden-hair  fern  to 
make  a  beautiful  foliage  over  this  fine  ruin. 

Michel,  a  gardener,  with  his  family,  occupied  the  lower 
part  of  the  chateau  building,  and  rented  the  grounds  at 
tached,  consisting  of  a  little  mounting  hill  outside  the  cha 
teau  walls,  which  was  laid  off  in  a  neat  terraced  vegetable 
garden,  with  rows  of  well-kept  dwarf  fruit-trees.  This  hill 
sloped  off  beneath  my  windows,  and  from  them  I  could 
look  down  on  a  pretty  winding  walk  that  mounted  up  over 
it.  The  hill  had  been  tunneled,  to  make  a  passage  to  the 
lower  part  of  the  garden,  and  this  mounting  walk,  with 
the  tunnel  arched  beneath,  made  a  very  picturesque  sight; 
there  was  a  broken  column  and  a  bit  of  ruined  stone  wall, 
and  from  the  garden  beyond  rose  an  old  ivy-covered  horse- 
chestnut  tree,  whose  long  branches  threw  a  friendly  shade 
over  the  tunneled  walk  and  extended  its  leafy  arms  quite 
over  to  my  balcony,  as  if  to  seek  the  acquaintance  of  a 
graceful  young  acacia  that  grew  quite  near  my  balcony 
posts. 

The  house  which  the  Bouvreuils  occupied  had  been  part 
of  an  old  convent,  and  near  my  window  rose  a  circular 
tower  which  had  been  its  staircase  and  belfry.  The  pic 
turesque  walk  and  part  of  Michel's  vegetable  garden,  pro 
bably  all  of  it,  must  have  belonged  to  the  community  ;  and 
I  often  amused  myself  with  conjuring  up  pictures  of  the 
past,  such  as  some  lovely  lonely  Chatelaine  of  Peilz — 
whose  knightly  husband  was  far  away,  emulating  the 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  79 

prowess,  and  infidelities  may-be,  of  the  legendary  Pala 
dins — passing  out  of  her  court-yard  gate  and  mounting  the 
shady  hill  walk  to  seek  counsel  from  the  Mother  Abbess, 
or  to  find  spiritual  consolation  in  the  performance  of  her 
meek  matronly  devotions  before  some  precious  shrine  in 
the  convent  chapel,  or  followed  by  her  maidens,  carrying 
some  gracious  offering  to  the  community. 

The  court-yard  of  the  chateau  was  always  neatly  kept. 
A  large  fountain  in  the  centre  poured  out  a  generous 
stream  of  sparkling  water  from  an  old  Savoisien  lion's 
mouth  into  a  large  stone  basin,  rudely  sculptured  in  the 
form  of  a  huge  scallop-shell  with  river-god  supporters, 
once  very  grand,  but  now  sadly  dilapidated.  Two  or  three 
trees,  some  walnuts  and  elms,  stood  there ;  probably 
planted  in  more  peaceful  times,  when  that  large  court-yard 
was  no  longer  needed  for  military  retainers.  Around  these 
trees  Michel  had  made  little  flower  rings,  and  against  the 
side  of  the  old  wall — near  the  house,  under  the  old  chapel 
window — lay  spread  out  a  fine  large  flower-bed  filled  with 
beautiful  geraniums  and  roses.  A  yellow  rose-vine  and 
\vhite  jessamine  clambered  up  the  wTall  and  mingled  with 
the  ivy  and  bindweeds.  There  were  the  China  asters,  pe 
tunias,  and  verbenas  of  midsummer,  and  a  few  rich  dah 
lias  of  autumn,  partly  opened,  and  a  border  of  superb 
fuchsias ;  Michel  was  very  proud  of  them  and  of  his  fine 
geraniums  which  stood  inside  the  fuchsia,  the  scarlet  ones 
as  brilliant  in  hue  as  those  of  Southern  Italy.  Some  de 
licious  tea-roses  and  reseda  threw  out  a  lovely  odor  ;  a  few 
late-blooming  yellow  roses  peeped  here  and  there  on  the 
rose-vine,  and  also  some  of  the  starry  white  blossoms  of 
the  jessamine.  I  stood  for  a  few  moments  looking  up  at 
the  beautiful  old  ruined  wall,  covered  with  such  various 
shades  of  green,  and  at  the  waving  tree-tops  and  the  little 
bit  of  blue  sky  peeping  in  between  the  leaves  at  the  old 


80  COMPENSATION; 

chapel  window ;  then  I  turned  toward  the  ruined  tower, 
whose  turreted  top  set  cuttingly  clear  against  the  blue  sky. 

"  Is  not  the  old  tower  a  fine  ruin  ?"  asked  Marie. 

I  started ;  my  new  friend  stood  close  beside  me ;  she 
had  seen  us  from  an  upper  window,  and  had  run  down  to 
greet  us. 

"  You  are  a  real  Fenella !"  I  answered,  "  for  you  spring 
up  beside  one  so  unexpectedly.  I  suppose  you  never  go 
up  and  down  stairs  like  common  folks ;  but,  like  Scott's 
uncanny  creation,  you  leap  and  spring  from  landing  to 
landing  on  the  old  staircase  in  the  most  reckless  and  terri 
fying  manner." 

"  Come  into  the  house  and  I  will  instantly  prove  to  you 
how  properly  I  can  go  up  stairs ;  and  do  not  be  afraid  to 
leave  this  fine  old  tower :  there  is  a  view  from  the  salon 
windows  and  tower  room  that  will  quite  repay  you  for  the 
trouble." 

A  large  hall  swept  through  the  house  from  the  court 
yard  door  to  the  door  which  opened  on  the  terrace  over 
hanging  the  lake.  On  one  side  of  this  hall  were  the  Michel 
apartments ;  on  the  other  the  kitchen  of  the  Merles,  and 
the  broad  stone  staircase  which  led  to  their  principal  apart 
ments  on  the  second  floor.  But  next  to  this  stairway,  and 
fronting  on  the  lake  terrace,  was  one  of  those  large  old 
rooms  always  found  in  these  chateaux,  and  which  had  prob 
ably  been  the  assembling  hall  of  the  officers  of  the  little 
army  of  the  Savoisien  duke ;  here  he  had  doubtless  held 
his  miniature  court.  The  banqueting -room  must  have 
been  above  this,  on  the  second  floor,  but  it  had  been  altered 
by  being  divided  into  a  salon  and  bedroom.  This  large 
hall  or  room  on  the  first  floor  had  also  been  divided  for 
modern  uses;  one  corner,  with  a  fine  old  window,  Mr. 
Merle  had  partitioned  off  for  his  library  ;  the  rest  was  used 
as  a  dining-room. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  81 

* 

The  western  tower,  which  stood  at  the  end  of  the  chapel 
wall  and  close  to  the  lake  shore,  had  in  the  second  story 
a  room  which  opened  on  to  the  salon.  This  west  tower 
stood  a  little  in  front  of  the  main  building,  so  that  on  en 
tering  the  salon  from  the  upper  entry  almost  the  first  thing 
that  arrested  the  sight  was  a  view  into  this  tower  room. 
It  was  lighted  by  a  fine  Gothic  window  filled  with  stained 
glass  of  great  age  and  value ;  but  the  principal  charm  of 
this  tower  room  to  me  was  a  beautiful  plaster  cast  of  two 
figures,  which  stood  on  a  revolving  pedestal  in  the  centre 
of  the  little  room  The  rich  lights  which  fell  on  it  from 
the  gorgeously-colored  window  produced  an  admirable 
effect.  It  was  one  of  those  happy  combinations  of  concep 
tion,  arrangement,  and  surroundings  which  cause  a  feeling 
of  perfect  satisfaction  to  the  beholder.  The  cast  was  of 
a  group  by  a  celebrated  Neapolitan  sculptor,  Tito  An 
gel  ini,  one  of  his  most  poetical  creations, — Francesca  di 
Rimini  and  Paolo, — expressing  that  exquisite  passage  in 
Dante,  commencing  at  the  line, — 

"  Noi  leggevamo  un  giorno  per  diletto." 

"  One  day  we  read  how  Launcelot  gazed  his  fill 
At  her  he  loved,  and  what  his  lady  said; 
We  were  alone,  thinking  of  nothing  ill. 

"  Oft  were  our  eyes  suspended  as  we  read, 
And  in  our  cheeks  the  color  went  and  came — 
Yet  one  passage  struck  resistance  dead : 

"  'Twas  where  the  lover,  mothlike  in  his  flame, 
Drawn  by  her  sweet  smile,  kissed  it.     Oh,  then,  he 
Whose  lot  and  mine  are  now  for  aye  the  same, 

"  All  in  a  tremble,  on  the  mouth  kissed  me. 

The  book  did  all.     Our  hearts  within  us  burned 
Through  that  alone.     That  day  no  more  read  we."® 

*  Leigh  Hunt's  translation. 


82  COMPENSATION; 

» 
A  very  halo  of  beauty  hung  around  the  group.    I  looked 

up  at  the  window  from  which  streamed  down  the  glorious 
golden  and  purple  and  crimson  lights,  then  on  this  repre 
sentation  of  the  poet's  lines,  in  which  Angelini  has  proved 
himself  Dante's  peer,  and  felt  as  if  floating  in  the  atmo 
sphere  of  beauty  it  created.  Francesca  and  her  lover  are  at 
the  very  moment  when  the  poet's  line  reveals  their  love 
.to  each  other,  that  one  passage  which  "struck  resistance 
dead."  Her  eyes  seem  swimming  with  rapture,  though 
cast  down  as  if  conscious  that  in  her  cheeks  "  the  color 
went  and  came."  The  droop  of  her  graceful  form,  the  very 
fall  of  her  beautiful  hand  on  the  book,  shows  how  heavily 
steeped  her  senses  are  in  the  perilous  magnetic  fluid  of  love, 
while  the  lover's  whole  being  seems  palpitating  and  throb 
bing  ;  one  hand  and  arm  are  extended  over  her  shoulder, 
the  other  draws  her  little  hand  close  to  his  heart ;  and  his 
face,  formed  in  that  beautiful  Italian  type,  is  expressive  of 
the  delicious  enjoyment  of  the  bliss  just  in  reach, — that 
precious,  costly  kiss ;  that  fatal  embrace  for  which  they 
were  condemned  to  float  through  Dante's  Inferno  in  end 
less  misery. 

"  Ah,  Dante,  surely  love's  faiblesses  and  sins  were  more 
severely  judged  in  your  heaven  and  hell  than  in  our  world 
of  to-day  !"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil. 

"  Then  we  have  improved  in  charity,  dear  madam  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  Probably  in  indifference,"  said  Tante  Cecile,  softly. 

"  Oh,  stop  speculating !"  cried  Marie,  impatiently.  "As 
Tante  Octavie  would  say,  '  Do  not  get  into  deep  water, 
with  your  crude,  feminine  philosophizing.'  I  want  Made 
moiselle  Fauvette  to  have  her  first  impressions  both  agree 
ably  and  indelibly  traced.  Be  so  good,  mademoiselle, 
as  to  sit  clown  on  one  of  these  little  canapes,  this  one 
opposite  the  window,  and  study  the  group,  while  I  play 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  83 

for  you  the  music  which,  according  to  my  fancy,  belongs 
to  it." 

"  So,  you  saucy  girl,"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil,  play 
fully,  "  with  your  usual  conceit  you  wish  to  have  all  the 
deep  water  to  yourself!  Eh  bien,  go  off  to  your  piano; 
you  shall  have  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  all  to  yourself;  for 
Tante  Cecile  and  I  have  a  variety  of  talk  to  get  through 
with  on  subjects  much  more  practical,  and  probably  more 
useful,  than  your  divine  high  art." 

And  the  two  elder  ladies  left  the  room,  laughing  at 
Marie's  mock  horror  at  the  shadow  of  heresy  contained  in 
Madame  Bouvreuil's  reply. 

Marie's  full  grand  Erard  piano,  which  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  large  salon,  fronted  the  little  tower  cham 
ber  ;  she  seated  herself  at  it  and  commenced  the  Adagio 
in  Chopin's  second  concerto.  The  passage  was  indeed 
well  fitted  to  illustrate  the  poet's  and  the  sculptor's  cre 
ation. 

"  The  accessory  designs  in  it  belong  to  the  best  manner 
of  this  great  musical  artist,  and  the  principal  phrase  is  of 
admirable  breadth.  It  alternates  with  a  recitative  which 
establishes  the  minor  tone,  and  of  which  it  is  an  antis- 
trophe.  The  whole  passage  possesses  an  ideal  beauty; 
its  sentiment  is  by  turns  radiant,  then  pitying  and  sorrow 
ful.  It  makes  one  think  of  a  magnificent  landscape  inun 
dated  with  glorious  golden  lights ;  of  some  fortunate 
Vale  of  Tempe  that  had  been  selected  as  the  place  for  re 
citing  some  sad  history,  some  grievous,  lamentable  event. 
One  might  say  an  irreparable  regret  filled  the  heart,  even 
in  the  presence  of  an  incomparable  splendor  in  nature, — a 
contrast  which  is  sustained  by  a  fusion  of  tones,  a  suc 
cession  of  graduated  tints,  as  it  were,  which  prevents  any 
sudden  shock  that  might  cause  a  dissonance  to  arrive, 
and  which  might  injure  the  touching  impression  that  is 


8  4  COMPENSA  TION; 

being  produced,  for  while  the  joy  is  clouded  the  grief  is 
soothed."* 

After  Marie  had  finished  playing  this  exquisite  passage, 
so  eloquently  analyzed  in  the  above  quotation,  she  came 
to  nie  and  we  examined  together  the  sculptor's  beautiful 
work.  She  then  told  me  its  history.  The  original  had 
been  sculptured  for  a  wealthy  Swiss  merchant  living 
at  Naples,  a  friend  of  Mr.  Merle's ;  they  had  been 
boys  together.  After  they  came  to  manhood,  their  paths 
in  life  widely  diverged.  Mr.  Merle  became  a  Swiss 
pastor,  while  his  boy  friend  was  a  successful  trader ; 
but  the  wealthy  merchant  had  so  many  and  pleasant  as 
sociations  connected  with  the  excellent  intellectual  com 
panion  of  his  youth,  that  their  friendship  had  con 
tinued  unchanged  through  all  the  circumstances  of  dif 
ferent  positions  and  pursuits  which  might  naturally  have 
affected  it. 

"Then,"  said  Marie,  "he  admires  papa's  daughter;  and 
when  he  heard  me  play,  about  a  year  since,  on  this  ex 
quisite  Erard  of  mine,  which  a  kind  old  cousin's  legacy 
enabled  me  to  buy,  he  honored  me  by  being  touched  to 
tears — just  fancy  the  compliment ! — and  a  few  months 
after,  on  his  return  to  Naples,  he  sent  this  lovely  creation 
to,  as'his  note  said,  '  the  daughter  of  his  boyhood's  com 
panion  and  manhood's  counselor  and  friend.' " 

I  admired  the  prosperous  merchant's  good  taste,  and 
thought  surely  none  of  his  numberless  piastres  had  ever 
been  so  well  spent,  as  in  placing  such  a  marvelous  con 
ception  of  poetic  beauty  in  the  home  of  this  gifted  girl. 
We  looked  out  of  the  tower  window  down  on  the  lake, 
whose  mimic  sea-waves  dashed  finely  against  the  wall  of 
the  tower ;  then  on  the  rugged  Savoy  Alps,  and  the  misty 

*"  Chopin,"  par  F.  Liszt,  pp.  11,  12, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  85 

line  of  Jura,  which  seemed  to  end  this  little  inland  sea, 
giving  no  promise  of  the  sunny  towns  spread  out  farther 
down  on  its  picturesque  borders. 

Then  Marie  made  me  observe  the  interior  of  the  tower 
room.  From  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  hung  a  fine  bronze 
copy  of  one  of  the  exquisite  antique  Pompeiian  lamps,  an 
other  gift  of  the  munificent  friend ;  and  this  lamp  was  so 
arranged  by  chains  that  it  could  be  lowered  or  raised  in 
different  positions  in  order  to  throw  the  light  at  will  upon 
the  group.  The  floor,  like  that  of  the  salon,  was  inlaid 
in  diamond  form,  of  brown  and  yellow  wood,  Avell  waxed, 
and  shining  like  a  polished  table-surface;  two  sofas  were 
inserted  in  the  wall  on  either  side  of  the  window  and  door, 
covered  with  crimson,  and  in  front  of  them  lay  little 
crimson  foot-rugs  of  tufted  work, — Tante  Cecile's  clever 
hands  had  made  them  ;  a  mirror  was  behind  the  statue, 
and  the  remaining  part  of  the  wall  was  hung  with  French 
paper  of  a  neutral  tint,  bordered  at  the  ceiling  with  a 
narrow,  gilt  cornice. 

We  then  left  the  tower  room  and  went  into  the  salon. 
Two  grand  old  windows,' with  deep  embrasures,  opened 
to  the  floor,  and,  protected  on  the  outside  by  shallow  bal 
conies  of  iron  spears,  lighted  the  apartment.  The  piano 
was  the  greatest  treasure  in  the  room  to  Marie  ;  but  on 
the  walls  hung  some  fine  engravings  and  three  curious 
old  pictures,  which,  with  some  relics  of  Pierre  of  Savoy, 
were  very  precious  to  Mr.  Merle.  The  pictures  drew  my 
attention  first;  they  were  three  panel  paintings  by  the 
Zui-ich  artist,  Manuel,  who  lived  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
They  had  golden  backgrounds  :  one  was  a  Blessed  Virgin, 
another  a  St.  Catherine,  and  the  third,  John  the  Baptist. 
They  were  not  remarkable  for  beauty  of  form  or  feature ; 
but  they  had  that  charm  which  is  so  often  observed  in  all 

8 


86  COMPENSATION; 

these  old  devotional  pictures — calmness,  serenity,  and 
purity  of  thought.  They  seem  fitted  for  the  places  for 
which  they  were  designed,  altars  and  shrines,  before 
which  the  heavy-hearted  or  anxious  knelt  in  prayer.  The 
very  sight  of  one  of  these  peaceful  old  pictures  of  the 
Yirgin  or  saints  quiets  down  all  unrest.  The  Virgin  may 
be  angular  and  the  saints  may  be  wry-necked,  but  there  is 
around  them  an  atmosphere  of  perfect  peace.  They  were 
created  at  an  era  when  Faith  was  settled,  before  the 
birth  of  the  hydra  Doubt ;  every  picture  had  a  symbolic 
meaning,  was  a  representation  of  some  Divine  mysteri 
ous  legend ;  hope,  faith,  and  sinless  love,  expressed  in  a 
tranquil,  pious  spirit,  constitute  their  attraction.  The 
artists  felt  and  believed,  and  for  that  reason  their  crea 
tions,  though  faulty  in  drawing  and  full  of  defects,  to  a 
cultivated  eye,  possess  a  power  greater  than  any  modern 
production, — that  of  raising  the  heart  and  thoughts  into 
the  purer  region  of  the  spiritual  world,  where  all  is  per 
fect  peace. 

The  evening  shades  darkened  the  room  and  prevented 
me  from  examining  the  other  carious  contents  of  the  salon, 
and  Marie  and  I  leaned  over  the  balcony  and  looked  out 
into  the  waters  of  the  lake  dancing  coquettishly  under 
the  moonbeams,  while  I  described  to  her  other  pictures  I 
had  seen  of  that  epoch,  the  peaceful  dawn  of  art  which 
was  heralded  in  by  such  angelic  spirits  as  II  Beato  Fiesole. 
While  deep  in  our  pre-Raphaelitism,  we  were  summoned 
to  tea,  and  I  was  presented  to  Marie's  father.  Mr.  Merle 
was  a  tall,  spare  man,  very  like  his  sister  in  appearance 
and  disposition — the  same  genial  tone,  the  same  quiet 
playfulness  and  simplicity.  A  sincere  and  pious  Christian, 
a  generous  and  charitable  man,  and  a  scholar,  Mr.  Merle 
was  as  modest  as  a  girl ;  he  always  made  me  think  of  that 
condition  which  was  the  stumbling-block  to  Nicodemus, 


ORt  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  87 

"  Unless  ye  be  born  again,  and  become  as  little  children, 
ye  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  for  he  had  the 
innocent,  guileless  spirit  of  one  of  those  little  children 
of  whom  the  blessed  Christ  said  :  "  Suffer  them  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not :  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven." 


COMPENSATION;  . 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

TANTE    OCTAVIE. 

A  TEW  weeks  went  by  pleasantly,  and  one  sweet  clay  in 
the  latter  part  of  September,  Helene  Bouvreuil  and  Octave 
returned  with  their  aunt,  Madame  Eperveil.  Institution 
Eperveil  looked  inhabited  again,  and  its  grounds,  at  noon 
day  or  sunset,  were  filled  with  a  crowd  of  youths  engaged 
with  their  tutors  in  a  variety  of  terrific  gymnastic  exercises, 
which  made  me  expect  to  see  some  violent  death  whenever  I 
passed  by  there.  The  professor  and  Kinnaird  Graham  re 
sumed  their  class  duties,  and  were  busily  occupied  morning 
and  afternoon.  Octave  stayed  only  a  few  days  at  home,  as 
he  found  it  necessary  to  take  a  journey  to  Paris,  under  the 
pretense  of  purchasing  books  and  instruments  for  the  In 
stitution,  which  could  just  as  well  have  been  ordered. 

Helene  Bouvreuil,  with  whom  I  soon  grew  intimate,  and 
Marie  Merle  and  I,  cultivated  cordially  the  pleasant  "young 
friendship  which  had  sprung  up  between  us.  Helene  was 
as  perfect  a  contrast  to  Marie  as  Kinnaird  was  to  Octave, 
though  in  a  different  way;  for  while  Kinnaird  was  the  type 
of  a  large  class  of  mankind,  Octave,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  was 
Kin  generis.  But  Helene  and  Marie  were  types  of  two 
classes  of  women,  both  excellent,  complete,  and  useful,  ac 
cording  to  their  development  and  position  in  this  state  of 
being.  Helene  was,  by  nature  and  disposition,  calculated  to 
perform  the  difficult  but  tender  duties  of  wife  and  mother. 
She  was  a  Rachel  and  Rebekah  of  the  old  law  ;  Marie  was 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  89 

a  Miriam,  a  Jephthah's  daughter ;  an  artist-soul  fluttered 
its  wings  within  her,  but  luckily  it  was  not  voiceless.  Many 
artist-women  are  dumb  in  this  state  of  existence ;  the  divine 
thoughts  struggle  to  take  form  and  shape  in  vain;  they 
remain  vague  shadows  of  thoughts. 

"  The  yearning  to  a  beautiful,  denied  you, 

Shall  strain  your  powers; 
Ideal  sweetnesses  shall  overglide  you, 
Resumed  from  ours  !"*  .-.  , 

Sometimes,  from  necessity  or  ignorance  of  their  inability, 
they  take  up  the  labor  of  their  sisters ;  then  comes  the  strug 
gle,  the  attempt  at  and  recoiling  before  the  almost  impos 
sible  duty  of  their  woman-life;  a  spirit  lies  wailing  within 
them  while  they  go  about  doing  ineffectually  the  work  not 
made  for  their  hands.  All  this  is  a  mystery  that  will  be 
resolved  in  another  state  of  being  ;  there  the  Mary-mother 
women  may  love  without  sadness  and  inquietude,  and  the 
Miriam  artist-women  be  complete  and  joyful. 

Helene  was  like  her  mother,  active  and  capable  ;  she 
loved  home  duties  and  a  quiet  domestic  life.  She  was  not 
so  self-dependent,  as  I  have  before  said,  as  her  mother ;  she 
was  more  clinging  and  demonstrative,  but  this  added  a 
greater  charm  to  her.  One  of  the  prettiest  sights  was  to 
see  her  and  her  mother  together  in  the  garden  beneath  my 
windows  at  sunset,  with  their  arms  about  each  other's 
.waists,  walking  up  and  down  the  little  hill,  or  leaning 
against  the  old  column  and  stone  wall,  talking  about  house 
affairs,  making  their  little  confidences  to  each  other, — the 
one  receiving  sweet  counsel,  and  the  other  taking  her 
mother-reward  of  complete  companionship  and  content. 
Often  I  have  shrunk  back  behind  my  curtain,  after  I  had 
been  looking  down  unseen  on  them,  with  my  cheeks  wet 

*  Mrs.  Browning's  "  Drama  of  Exile." 

8* 


9  0  COMPENSA  TION  ; 

with  tears  and  my  heart  wailing  out  hopelessly  the  never- 
ending  cry,  "  Lost  is  lost,  and  gone  is  gone."  There  is  no 
mortal  love  so  beautiful  and  complete  as  mother  and  daugh 
ter  love. 

Helene  and  Kinnaird  were  very  quiet,  contented  lovers. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  guessed  their  position 
toward  each  other  without  Madame  Bouvreuil's  informa 
tion;  they  had  lived  together  from  childhood,  and  were 
more  like  brother  and  sister,  or  very  dear  friends,  than  the 
usual  accepted  notion  of  lovers.  Octave  and  Marie  re 
sembled  much  more  the  favorite  novel  type.  But  do  such 
make  happy  married  people  ?  The  calmer,  quieter  loves 
are  better  for  human  nature's  daily  food,  I  fancy. 

I  had  not  seen  Octave  much  with  Marie  until  after  his 
return  from  Paris,  which  was  about  the  latter  part  of  Sep 
tember.  I  watched  them  closely  ;  I  could  not  help  it ;  Oc 
tave  dazzled  me,  and  I  was  beginning  to  love  Marie  very 
deeply.  I  liked  to  talk  to  Octave  ;  we  had  many  subjects 
in  common  ;  we  had  both  traveled  a  great  deal,  both  seen 
noted  people,  and  had  both  read  the  same  books  with  pleas 
ure.  He  did  not,  nor  did  Marie,  object  to  allowing  me  to 
make  a  third  in  their  tete-a-tetes.  He  was  very  fitful  in  his 
attentions  to  his  lady-love  ;  but  when  he  condescended  to 
be  devoted,  he  was  irresistibly  attractive,  he  showed  so 
much  gallantry  and  grace.  I  never  knew  much  of  the 
detail  of  their  love-affairs,  nor  did  any  one  ;  we  could  only 
judge  by  the  appearance  of  things.  I  say  we,  for  soon 
after  the  commencement  of  our  acquaintance,  Tante  Cecile 
and  I  became  very  good  friends,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
she  communicated  to  me  her  hopes  and  fears  on  the  subject. 
She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  darling  being  thrown 
away  on  such  a  brilliant  vaurien  as  Octave,  and  rejoiced 
over  each  misunderstanding  between  them,  which  was  fre 
quent  enough. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  91 

Marie,  though  so  frank  and  open  on  every  subject  with 
me,  never  spoke  with  me  directly  about  Octave.  After  we 
grew  to  be  very  dear  friends  there  was  a  sort  of  tacit  un 
derstanding  between  us  about  it,  and  many  allusions  she 
would  make,  apparently  to  other  things,  were  often  in 
tended,  as  we  both  knew,  to  apply  to  this  forbidden  subject. 
And  yet  she  did  not  hesitate  to  talk  freely  of  Helene  and 
Kinnaird,  and  I  was  wicked  enough  many  times  to  be 
amused  with  her  sharp,  witty  remarks  upon  the  quiet  tenor 
of  their  loves.  Marie  considered  Kinnaird  "  lamentably 
slow;"  like  many  others  of  her  sex,  she  admired  just  the 
sort  of  men  that  would  make  her  miserable,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  confess  that  I  did  not  at  first  value  Kinnaird 
Graham  as  much  as  he  merited  ;  he  was  cold  and  reserved, 
and  did  not  enter  into  the  rather  reckless  merriment  between 
Octave,  Marie,  and  me. 

There  was  one  very  prominent  member  of  the  Bouvreuil 
family  I  had  not  yet  met  with,  although  I  had  been  an 
inmate  of  their  house  for  several  months,  and  this  was 
Madame  Eperveil.  Since  her  return  from  Berlin  she  had 
been  busily  occupied  in  ordering  and  directing  her  estab 
lishment  ;  moreover,  she  never  visited ;  indeed,  never 
went  anywhere  but  to  church.  Had  I  been  a  Protestant, 
I  should  have  met  her  there  ;  but  on  Sundays  I  generally 
walked  to  a  neighboring  town,  to  a  little  Catholic  chapel, 
and  thus  missed  the  only  chance -I  had  of  being  presented 
to  her  without  calling  on  her.  I  was  not  so  foolish  as  to 
expect  that  one  so  much  my  senior  as  Madame  Eperveil 
should  lay  aside  her  usual  custom  and  make  a  call  upon 
me;  but  although  I  received  general  and  courteous  invita 
tions  to  visit  her,  through  the  family,  some  -indefinable 
repugnance  kept  me  from  going.  Marie  Merle  bad  often 
talked  to  me  of  Madame  Eperveil,  and,  without  desiring 
to  produce  a  wrong  or  harsh  impression,  had  given  me  the 


9  2  COM  PENS  A  TIO&; 

idea  of  her  being  a  repulsive  and  overbearing  woman.  In 
deed,  everything  I  heard  and  saw  convinced  me  that  she 
was  the  petty  tyrant  of  not  only  the  Bouvreuil  family,  but 
nearly  all  Peilz ;  she  had  one  of  those  dictatorial  disposi 
tions  and  imperious  natures  that  value  obedience  and  sub 
mission  more  than  friendship  and  love.  So  I  put  off  going 
to  see  her  from  time  to  time,  until  one  day,  on  receiving  an 
invitation  to  the  first  of  a  series  of  concerts  and  dramatic 
readings,  to  be  given  during  the  winter  at  Institution  Eper- 
.veil,  according  to  an  old  established  custom,  I  felt  a  little 
awkward  and  surprised,  and  wished  I  had  performed  the 
disagreeable  duty  of  calling  on  her  before.  The  card  of 
invitation  was  accompanied  by  so  gracious  a  verbal  one, 
through  Madame  Bouvreuil,  that  I  could  not  refuse  to  ac 
cept  it.  As  the  concert  was  to  be  on  the  following  evening, 
I  had  not  even  time  to  make  amends  for  my  negligence, 
and  could  only  write  a  formal  acceptance  of  the  invitation, 
which  Madame  Bouvreuil  assured  me  was  all  that  was 
necessary. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  next  evening  we  were  all  on  the 
way  to  Institution  Eperveil,  for  Madame  Bouvreuil  had 
said  at  the  tea-table,  "  Let  us  be  early,  girls,  for  Tante  Oc- 
tavie  is  so  annoyed  at  late  arrivals ;"  and  this  made  me 
very  prompt  in  my  toilet,  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  I 
should  not  otherwise  have  been,  as  I  had  that  sad  fault  of 
procrastinating  inherent  in  my  nature,  and  which  was  very 
apt  to  keep  me  from  being  punctual.  Mr.  Graham  and 
Helene,  then  Octave  and  I,  and  after  us  Professor  and 
Madame  Bouvreuil,  formed  the  family  procession.  We 
entered  the  salon  first  before  going  to  the  exhibition  room, 
because  it  had  been  announced  diplomatically  that  Ma 
dame  Eperveil  wished  to  have  me  presented  to  her  with 
some  extra  ceremony,  by  way  of  making  up  for  my  neglect 
of  calling  on  her,  I  suppose  And  at  last  I  was  to  see  this 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  93 

petty  empress,  this  Elizabeth  or  Catherine  of  the  little 
Suisse  village  of  Peilz. 

We  found  her  in  the  salon,  with  a  few  friends  around 
her — a  miniature  court.  I  was  presented  in  due  form,  and 
she  received  me  with  charming  affability  and  grace.  Tante 
Octavie  must  have  been  about  fifty  when  I  first  saw  her. 
Though  of  a  French  Suisse  family  by  blood,  she  looked 
more  like  an  Englishwoman  or  a  German,  being  a  pure 
blonde.  She  was  tall  and  finely  proportioned,  but  though 
feminine  in  its  development,  her  figure  was  very  bard  and 
iron-looking,  and  her  large  well-formed  white  hand  had  a 
grasp  like  that  of  a  man.  Her  skin  was  fair,  her  eyes  a 
clear  bright  blue,  but  her  great  pride  was  in  her  fine  fore 
head  and  superb  hair ;  this  forehead  swept  up  high  and 
grand  like  a  man's,  and  her  hair  was  indeed  beautiful,  of 
that  tint  called  cendre,  and  very  luxuriant ;  she  always 
dressed  it  well :  a  rich,  heavy  plaited  knot  on  the  back  of 
the  head,  and  full  bandeaux  over  her  noble  forehead.  Yes, 
I  had  to  admit  that  Tante  Octavie  was  a  fine,  grand-look 
ing  woman.  She  was  not  at  all  attractive,  however,  to  my 
fancy ;  there  was  such  a  hardness  about  her,  and  then  her 
countenance  was  so  imperious  and  obstinate  in  its  expres 
sion.  Her  features  were  all  good,  her  eyes  finely  set,  her 
nose  straight  and  well  outlined,  and  her  hard,  firm  lips 
had  the  same  chiseled  look,  but  it  was  that  very  chiseled 
look  which  repulsed  me.  She  looked  as  if  made  out  of 
white  iron — if  one  could  imagine  such  a  substance — not 
painted  iron,  but  some  substance  harder  and  sharper  than 
marble  in  its  points.  We  looked  so  little  beside  her,  or  at 
least  the  rest  did ;  I  do  not  remember  feeling  little  myself, 
although  I  was  the  smallest  of  the  party  ;  I  only  remem 
ber  remarking  how  little  the  other  women  looked,  even  the 
graceful,  tall  Helene. 

The  introduction  over,  she  resumed  her  seat  on  a  small 


94  COMPENSATION; 

sofa,  only  large  enough,  in  these  days  of  ample  skirts,  for 
two  persons.  She  motioned  with  her  head  to  the  rest  to 
be  seated,  and  taking  me  graciously  by  the  hand,  begged 
me  to  sit  beside  her.  I  did  so,  and  we  entered  into  a  con 
versation  about  Switzerland  in  general  and  Swiss  scenery 
in  particular.  Tante  Octavie  talked  well,  but  there  was 
no  warm  sympathetic  tone  in  her  voice,  as  in  Madame 
Bouvreuil's  and  Tante  Cecile's.  Her  words  were  all  on 
the  surface  ;  not  of  the  subject — for  she  always  understood 
well  what  she  talked  of — but  on  the  surface  of  feeling.  I 
have  heard  of  the  fairy  who  spoke  pearls:  Tante  Octavie's 
words  dropped  hard  and  clear  and  polished,  like  little  peb 
bles  of  marble  on  a  glittering  icy  surface.  We  were  sin 
gularly  gracious  to  each  other,  however ;  Marie  Merle  said 
saucily,  "  it  was  too  good  a  beginning  to  last." 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  for  two  such  opposite 
characters  to  draw  well  together.  I  was  little  in  stature, 
and  frail  and  delicate  in  health,  with  a  nervous  tempera 
ment;  disposed,  from  various  circumstances,  at  times  to 
be  morbid  and  irritable  ;  and,  like  all  such  little  people,  I 
had  a  will  as  large  as  Tante  Octavie's.  The  world  is  so 
apt  to  think  the  little  and  frail  are  always  gentle  and  yield 
ing  ;  this  is  a  great  mistake ;  they  are  a  very  troublesome 
set  if  taken  hold  of  in  that  way,  and  are  aptj  like  little  bees, 
to  show  a  pretty  fierce  sting.  Tante  Octavie  no  more  un 
derstood  me,  nor  indeed  any  other  human  character,  than 
she  understood  Syro- Arabic ;  and  yet  it  might  be  that  she 
understood  that;  for,  as  I  before  said,  she  had  been  a 
pupil  of  the  great  Neander,  and  that  high  white  forehead  of 
hers  held  a  great  deal  of  cunning  knowledge.  But  Tante 
Octavie, — like  the  great  Anglo-Saxon  men  she  resembled, 
— though  she  could  manage  and  control  a  crowd  of  people, 
was  totally  and  entirely  ignorant  of  the  "open  sesame"  to 
those  human  hearts  who  were  constrained  bv  circumstances 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  95 

to  follow  her  lead  and  bidding.  If  I  had  been  her  daugh 
ter,  she  would  have  governed  me  too,  for  such  nervous 
enthusiastic  natures  as  mine  are  capable  of  deep  admiring 
love  for  characters  like  Tante  Octavie's,  when  duty  and 
the  ties  of  blood  connect  them  together,  and  I  often  felt 
how  merciful  it  was  that  I  had  not  been  bound  by  natural 
ties  to  such  a  disposition.  She  would  have  broken  me  in 
regularly,  and  what  a  miserable  unhappy  being  I  should 
have  been !  I  should  have  loved  her  deeply  and  feared 
her  painfully ;  she  would  have  been  a  living  torture  to  my 
heart,  soul,  and  body,  for  I  could  never  have  been  natural, 
never  myself.  The  effect  of  her  influence  over  such  a 
character  as  mine  would  have  been  to  produce  that  sad 
dest  of  all  creations  by  human  influence, — a  species  of 
cracked,  trembling  inefficiency,  which  might  have  ended 
in  hopelessness  or  despair.  But  meeting  Tante  Octavie 
on  equal  ground,  she  aroused  all  the  antagonism  of  my 
nature :  a  sort  of  instinctive  dread  of  the  danger  of  her  in 
fluence,  I  suppose,  made  my  whole  being  brace  itself  erect 
against  her  at  all  points.  She  had  good  strong  health ; 
she  could  swim,  row  a  boat,  walk  over  a  mountain,  manage 
a  large  institution  of  young  men,  keep  house,  cook  a  din 
ner,  talk  every  living  tongue,  do  anything;  she  was  a 
grand,  strong,  capable  woman,  and  a  superb  tyrant.  I  was 
just  the  reverse  of  all  this ;  and  when  she  found  I  was  not 
humiliated  and  mortified,  but  even  admitted  my  ineffi 
ciency,  she  was  as  surprised  as  enraged.  She  had  but  one 
standard  to  judge  people  by,  and  when  those  with  whom 
she  was  connected  by  blood  or  business  did  not  or  could 
not  reach  that  standard,  she  treated  the  deficiency  either 
as  a  personal  insult  to  herself  or  a  contemptible  weakness 
in  them ;  she  made  no  allowances  for  differences  of  tem 
perament  or  constitution,  and  she  had  no  charity  for  phys 
ical  inability.  If  she  could  have  made  the  world,  she 


9  6  CO  HP  ENS  A  TION; 

would  have  had  no  feeble-minded  or  sick  people  in  it ;  she 
had  sublime  patience  with  a  broken  leg  or  a  crushed  head, 
when  caused  by  accident,  but  for  delicate  constitutions,  or 
nervous  temperaments,  she  not  only  felt  no  sympathy,  but 
she  felt  and  showed  contempt.  Then  she  worshiped  utility 
and  constant  doing,  acting  and  achieving.  I  was  content 
with  mere  living.  I  had  great  faith  in  that  line  of  Mil 
ton, — 

"  Those  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

There  was  always  delicious,  exquisite  repose  for  my 
spirit  in  the  idea  of  those  angels  on  either  side  of  the 
throne  of  heaven  who  float  with  hands  folded  meekly  over 
their  breasts,  adoring  in  silence  for  evermore.  She  thought 
the  heart  a  useless  appendage ;  duty  was  her  great  word  ; 
caresses  and  sweet  affectionate  words  between  mother  and 
child  she  just  barely  endured,  but  between  friend  and 
friend  was  too  much  for  her  patience,  or  rather  impatience, 
to  support ;  "  affectation"  and  "  nonsense"  were  her  favor 
ite  terms  for  such  "  exhibitions,"  as  she  called  them.  Such 
natures  as  Marie's  and  mine  could  not  live  without  show 
ing  the  feelings  and  emotions  of  our  hearts ;  we  were  de 
monstrative  to  those  we  loved,  cold  as  death  to  those  we 
did  not ;  kindness  and  tenderness,  and  sweet,  loving  words, 
were  to  us  as  breath  and  sunshine  to  the  plant.  God 
made  the  strong  eagle  to  face  the  sun  unwinkingly,  to  live 
up  in  the  high  dreary  clouds ;  but  he  made  also  the  beau 
tiful  flower-world,  and  the  happy  floating  butterfly,  and 
the  sweet  warm  atmosphere  of  the  brilliant  garden  part  of 
the  globe.  How  many  times  I  tried  Tante  Octavie's  pa 
tience,  not  by  talking  these  views — for  I  have  never  had 
courage  or  self-possession  enough  to  argue  with  any  one 
— but  by  acting  them  !  I  aided  the  rebellious  and  helped 
to  fortify  the  weak  subjects  in  her  little  kingdom.  I  think 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  97 

that  at  one  time  she  positively  hated  me ;  I  was  her  Mor- 
decai,  sitting  at  the  gates  of  the  palace  content ;  I  have  no 
doubt  she  often  wished  to  be  an  autocrat,  just  to  punish 
me.  And  yet  I  could  do  Tante  Octavie  justice.  I  appre 
ciated  and  honored  all  that  was  great  and  excellent  in  her. 
I  will  give  here  a  little  sketch  of  her  history,  that  all  may 
have  the  same  reason  to  appreciate  her  as  I  had,  and  I 
can  do  it  while  the  company  is  assembling  in  the  lec 
ture-room  and  Tante  Octavie  and  I  are  talking  platitudes 
over  Suisse  scenery. 

She  was  married  young  to  a  man  she  loved  fondly. — 
for  she  had  loved  once  in  her  life,  to  be  sure,  in  her  way. 
Her  husband  was  a  professor  in  an  institution  something 
like  her  own.  Their  income  was  a  modest  one,  but  ample 
for  their  wants,  for  Madame  Eperveil  was  a  woman  of  the 
simplest  tastes.  A  few  months  after  their  marriage  a 
difficulty  arose  between  her  husband  and  his  chief,  and  he 
lost  his  place.  Thus  they  were  without  anything  in  the 
world  to  live  on.  Mr.  Eperveil  was  an  industrious  man, 
but  he  needed  work  to  be  prepared  for  him ;  he  luckily 
had  a  wife  who  loved  just  that  sort  of  business. 

"  Let  us  go  to  Peilz  and  set  up  an  institution  of  our 
own,"  she  said,  the  first  night  after  he  lost  his  professor 
ship  ;  and  they  sat  looking  at  each  other  and  talking  over 
their  position.  Her  husband  stared  at  her ;  he  must  have 
thought  his  wife  daft,  so  impossible  seemed  such  a  pro 
ceeding;  but  he  had  too  much  respect  for  his  own  peace 
and  quiet,  as  well  as  his  wife's  capability  and  judgment, 
to  say  anything.  She  proceeded  to  state  how  it  could  be 
done,  and  ended  by  convincing  him  of  the  possibility  of 
her  plan.  Of  course  she  did,  for  Tante  Octavie  had  always 
a  way  of  morally  "  necking  "  people  and  forcing  them  to  be 
convinced.  They  first  rented  a  small  house— on  nothing; 
issued  circulars,  and  opened  school  on  the  same  intangi- 

9 


98  COMPENSATION; 

ble  substance ;  but  pupils  came — first  little  boys,  then 
larger  ones.  After  a  decade  of  years,  they  found  them 
selves  sufficiently  prosperous  to  purchase  a  wood  and  a 
vineyard  adjoining  the  house  they  had  first  rented,  and 
which  they  by  this  time  owned.  This  land  they  turned 
into  the  beautiful  grounds  of  Institution  Eperveil.  Grad 
ually  rose  the  fine  centre  building,  with  lecture  and  recita 
tion  rooms,  and  dormitories  for  the  unmarried  tutor  and 
elder  students  ;  then  the  surrounding  houses  for  the  pro 
fessors  and  their  families ;  and  at  last  their  own  commo 
dious  house.  Her  gift  for  command,  her  great  power  in 
managing,  made  the  thing  go  like  clock-work. 

After  the  institution  was  fairly  established,  Mr.  Eperveil 
died.  He  was  no  great  loss  in  a  business  way  to  his  wife, 
as  she  never  allowed  him  to  be  anything  more  than  head 
master.  However,  I  have  no  doubt  she  felt  as  sorry  for 
his  death  as  her  well-occupied  time  would  permit,  for  he 
had  always  been  to  her  a  faithful,  meek,  and  obedient 
husband.  But  she  had  her  hands  too  full  to  think  or  feel 
for  mere  sentimental  troubles ;  as  she  would  have  said, 
"  She  had  her  living  to  earn  and  other  people  to  look  out 
for ;  she  had  no  time  to  indulge  herself  in  useless  laments 
over  events  that  must  occur  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
nature;"  and  to  do  her  justice,  she  did  a  great  deal  for 
"other  people"  that  was  of  infinite  service.  She  helped 
her  husband's  father  to  educate  and  establish  the  younger 
children  of  his  family,  each  one  of  which,  however,  de 
tested  her  most  cordially,  and  resented  her  assistance 
instead  of  being  grateful.  She  had  not  a  gracious  way  of 
bestowing  her  favors,  and  was  apt  to  destroy  gratitude  by 
ungenerously  exacting  it.  She  never  had  a  child  of  her 
own,  poor  woman  !  That  was  the  great  defect  of  her  con 
dition.  To  have  borne  and  brought  forth  a  little  child 
would  have  touched  her  cold  heart  and  caused  a  well- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  99 

spring  to  gush  up  and  overflow  her  whole  being  with  the 
beneficent  tide  of  tenderness  and  love.  Once,  when  very 
much  incensed  against  her  for  some  cruel  speech  she  had 
made  about  my  acute  nervous  sufferings,  I  said : 

"  Poor  Madame  Eperveil !  God  has  left  her  imperfect — 
motherless ;  this  is  the  reason  why  she  is  so  unfeeling." 

She  overheard  me,  and  it  caused  a  suspension  of  hos 
tilities  between  us  for  some  time,  and  I  am  sure  she  must 
have  felt  the  truth  of  my  retort.  Yes,  Madame  Octavie 
Eperveil  was  a  remarkable  woman ;  it  was  a  great  pity 
she  had  not  been  born  empress  or  queen,  that  she  might 
have  had  full  scope  for  her  governing  abilities,  and  God 
was  very  good  when  he  placed  me,  timid,  trembling,  fierce 
little  Fanny  Fauvette,  quite  out  of  her  kingdom.  I  be 
lieve  I  have  said  all  the  good  and  bad  that  I  know  of 
Tante  Octavie.  Oh,  no !  I  have  forgotten  one  thing ;  she 
had  a  weakness, — yes,  an  actual  weakness;  and  it  was  for 
the  brilliant  good-for-nothing  Octave  Bouvreuil.  He  was 
her  idol,  her  object  in  life.  Being  her  god-child  and  bear 
ing  her  name,  she  had  early  begun  to  regard  him  as  her 
own  child.  He  was  too  indifferent  and  selfish  to  care  for 
her  iron  rule.  But  she  never  attempted  to  rule  him ;  he 
might  have  governed  her,  had  he  not  been  too  indolent  to 
control  any  one.  It  is  very  odd,  to  be  sure,  that  just  such 
people  as  Tante  Octavie,  when  they  do  have  a  weakness, 
are  apt  to  have  a  worse  one  than  all  the  frailties  put  to 
gether  of  the  other  part  of  mankind  whom  they  despise, 
and  for  this  weakness  they  will  sacrifice  blindly  so  much. 

But  the  company  have  assembled  in  the  lecture-room, 
and  it  is  time  for  Madame  Eperveil  and  her  cortege  to  go 
also,  that  the  performance  may  commence. 


100  COMPENSA  TION; 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE   CONCERT. 

THE  lecture-hall  was  a  fine  large  oblong  room,  plainly 
furnished;  the  walls  and  ceilings  were  painted  a  neutral 
shade,  with  the  simple  decoration  of  panel  outlines  and 
cornice  in  gold.  The  long  windows  were  shaded  by  fold 
ing  blind  shutters  on  the  inside,  and  the  semicircular  tops 
filled  with  crimson  moreen  plaited  into  a  gold  crescent, 
which  gave  a  little  cheerfulness  in  its  effect  on  the  cold 
hue  of  the  walls.  Neatly  painted  benches  filled  the  greater 
part  of  the  hall,  but  toward  the  upper  part  were  comfort 
able  chairs  and  sofas  covered  with  crimson,  which  were 
intended  for  Madame  Eperveil's  guests  and  the  professors 
and  their  wives.  An  elevated  platform  extended  across 
the  upper  part  of  the  room,  which  had  broad  steps  leading 
up  to  it.  Part  of  this  platform  was  cut  off  by  a  heavy 
crimson  curtain  falling  from  the  ceiling,  which  concealed 
behind  it  the  arrangements  of  a  little  theatre  ;  for  some 
times  the  students  played  French  dramas — not  entire,  but 
scenes  which  required  only  male  actors.  Two  pianos  and 
some  musical  instruments  occupied  each  side  of  the  plat 
form  on  the  outside  of  the  curtain  ;  a  movable  desk  ordi 
narily  stood  in  front,  for  the  use  of  the  professors  who 
lectured  there  daily  to  the  students;  this  was  removed, 
and  some  music-stands  stood  in  its  place.  I  was  surprised 
to  see  a  row  of  foot-lights  extending  around  the  outer  edge 
of  the  platform,  and  on  expressing  my  astonishment  to 
Marie  and  being  overheard  by  Madame  Eperveil,  she 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  1Q1 

turned  graciously  to  me  as  if  very  well  pleased  to  have  a 
subject  for  conversation  with  me. 

"  Whenever  I  have  young  artists  to  play  for  me,"  she 
said,  "  like  those  of  to-night,  who  intend  to  appear  in 
public,  I  always  give  them  the  benefit  of  foot-lights;  it 
accustoms  them  early  to  this  often  embarrassing  acces 
sory  of  the  stage ;  also  when  our  young  gentlemen  give 
us  dramatic  representations,  it  produces  a  better  eifect." 

"Oh,  they  certainly  add  to  the  illusion  intended  to  be 
created,"  I  replied,  scarcely  knowing  what  to  say. 

"I  do  not  like  too  much  stage  illusion,"  she  answered 
rather  quickly.  "  I  think,  with  Girardin,  that  theatrical 
illusion  and  emotion  are  two  diiferent  things,  so  I  have 
our  stage  as  simple  as  possible.  The  art  of  decoration 
and  mise  en  scene,  as  we  call  it,  has  been  developed  to 
excess  in  our  day.  We  ought  to  have  dramatic  emotions 
a  hundred  times  more  lively  and  strong  than  our  ances 
tors,  who  had  such  coarse  and  imperfect  stage  accessories. 
But,  on  the  contrary,  although  the  illusion  produced  is 
perfect,  the  emotion  is  nothing,  and  the  taste  and  desire 
for  the  drama  are  very  weak  when  compared  with  those 
which  reigned  an  age  or  so  back." 

"  But,"  I  replied  with  some  exertion,  for  she  paused 
and  looked  as  if  she  expected  an  answer  of  agreement  or 
dissent,  "  an  age  or  so  back,  you  forget  that  on  your  own 
stage  you  had  Molieres,  and  Ratines,  and  Corneilles. 
No  wonder  there  existed  then  a  taste  for  the  drama,  when 
one  could  go  nightly  and  see  such  master-pieces  as  their 
works." 

"  We  have  Molieres  now,"  she  said  in  a  positive  tone, 
"if  the  public  will  demand  them;  moreover,  Scribe  has 
in  him  twice  the  cleverness  of  a  Moliere,  because  he  pro 
duces  an  effect  on  a  surfeited  public." 

"  The  public  taste  has  turned  toward  the  opera,"  I  re- 
9* 


102  COMPENSATION; 

marked ;  "  the  people  prefer  new  operas  from  favorite 
composers  to  the  drama." 

"  Yes,  and  for  such  amusements,"  she  replied  in  a  tone 
which  was  intended  to  show  what  an  indifferent  opinion 
she  entertained  for  the  opera, — "for  such  amusements  de 
coration  is  necessary,  as  music  is  only  an  amusement,  not 
a  study,  like  the  drama,  capable  of  elevating  the  mind  ; 
and  how  well  they  understand  all  that  sort  of  thing  in 
Paris !  My  nephew,  who  has  lately  returned  from  there, 
was  telling  me  yesterday  of  the  preparations  he  saw  being 
made  for  the  bringing  out  of  Halevy's  Magicienne.  The 
ballet  is  to  occupy  a  large  place  in  it.  The  painters  and 
scene-decorators  are  at  work  night  and  day,  and  he  tells 
me  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything  more  superb 
than  it  will  be." 

I  wanted  to  combat  her  unjust  opinion  of  music,  but  the 
curtain  rose,  showing  a  simply  furnished  salon  occupied 
by  a  middle-aged  man  with  two  young  girls,  his  daughters, 
standing  by  a  centre-table,  sorting  over  some  music.  The 
father  advanced  to  the  foot-lights  with  the  girls  and  bowed, 
then  seated  himself  at  one  of  the  pianos,  while  one  girl 
with  a  violoncello  and  the  other  with  a  violin  took  their 
position  near  the  music-stands.  They  were  very  young ; 
the  eldest,  the  violoncellist,  being  apparently  about  four 
teen,  the  violinist  a  year  or  two  younger.  They  were 
dressed  simply  in  rose-colored  and  white-checked  silks, 
made  close  up  to  the  throat  and  tight  to  the  wrists.  Their 
waving  hair  was  cut  short,  and  lay  in  little  soft  curls 
around  the  temples  and  back  of  the  neck.  The  figure  of 
the  eldest  showed  the  effect  produced  by  close  practice  on 
her  heavy  instrument ;  already  one  shoulder  was  partially 
elevated  and  her  chin  was  thrown  forward,  giving  a  pained 
expression  to  her  countenance.  She  had  good  firm  fea 
tures,  but  a  serious  expression  of  the  eye  told  she  already 


OR,  ALWAYS  A    FUTURE.  103 

felt  the  weight  of  the  future  on  her,  and  which  said,  like 
Shylock,  "  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe."  This 
is,  alas !  the  truth,  so  far  as  the  mediocre  are  concerned 
who  choose  the  stage  for  their  livelihood.  The  younger 
one  looked  well  fitted  for  her  profession ;  there  was  no 
suffering  or  sufferance  about  her  business  to  her.  She 
took  her  stand  with  the  most  perfect  aplomb;  her  whole 
little  figure  was  erect  and  well  poised.  She  was  prettier 
than  her  sister,  had  brilliant  black  eyes,  finely  arched 
brows,  and  a  beautiful  mouth  and  chin.  There  was  the 
some  coldness  that  characterized  her  sister's  face,  but  in 
her  it  amounted  to  almost  positive  scorn,  and  the  cool 
manner  in  which  she  looked  at  her  audience  was  amusing. 
Afterward  I  discovered  that  she  was  near-sighted,  and 
was  spared  that  one  great  trial  of  her  profession — the  clear 
perception  of  "the  sea  of  heads  and  waves  of  eyes"  be 
neath  her. 

Their  opening  piece  was  an  arrangement  from  Lucia, 
very  cleverly  selected  and  not  too  long.  The  fine  finale 
of  the  second  act,  always  popular,  formed  the  first  move 
ment,  and  it  closed  with  the  touching  finale  of  the  opera. 
The  little  violinist  displayed  as  much  feeling  as  talent, 
and  when  she  repeated  some  of  the  phrases  d,  mi  voix, 
the  effect  was  delicious ;  it  had  the  mysterious  silvery 
sound  of  the  nightingale  song  as  heard  by  moonlight  in 
an  orange-grove.  The  piece  put  the  whole  audience  into 
a  good  humor,  and  the  artists  were  applauded  and  com 
plimented  to  their  full  contentment,  and  the  curtain  fell 
as  they  retired  bowing,  with  lowered  eyes.  I  had  ob 
served  during  the  piece  a  person  fluttering  uneasily  about, 
crying  " Brava"  and  " Bene"  officiously;  and  when  the 
audience  testified  their  approbation,  although  one  of  the 
audience  himself,  he  seemed  to  take  the  applause  as  a  per 
sonal  compliment. 


104  COMPENSA  TION; 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?"  I  asked  of  Marie,  after  the  curtain 
fell  and  Tante  Octavie  left  me  to  go  to  the  rest  of  her 
guests. 

"Who?" 

"  That  fussy  person  talking  now  to  Octave,  evidently 
boring  him  to  death.  What  a  shrill  voice  he  has  !" 

"  That !  Oh,  he  is  our  village  Thalberg,  Tante  Octavie's 
professor  of  music — or  music  teacher,  Mr.  Wolfmaister." 

"  A  German  ?» 

"  Yes ;  that  is,  of  a  German  family  from  Berne,  and 
educated  by  good  masters ;  he  was  a  pupil  for  two  years 
of  Chopin." 

I  looked  at  the  man  with  more  respect.  "  He  is  a  clever 
musician,  then  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Passably  clever.  But  how  port  and  presumptuous  I 
am  !  Yes,  he  is  indeed  a  very  fine  executant,  and  well 
skilled  in  the  theory  of  music ;  he  can  explain  to  you  in 
the  most  profound  and  difficult  style  all  about  the  Chord  of 
the  Seventh  and  the  Diminished  Seventh,  and  every  triad 
to  be  mentioned,  Diminished,  Dominant,  Major,  and  Minor 
Triads.  He  has  been  the  only  master  I  have  ever  had,  and 
I  ought  to  speak  more  respectfully  of  him  ;  but,  to  tell  the 
truth,  we  are  beginning  to  disagree  in  music ;  he  does  not 
like  my  'sprouting  wings,'  as  he  calls  my  independent 
opinions  as  to  expression,  etc." 

"  What,  the  color  or  the  shape  ?"  I  asked  laughingly. 

"  Indeed,  I  fancy  he  does  not  like  me  to  have  wings  at 
all,"  she  said,  shrugging  her  shoulders ;  "  he  treats  me 
and  all  my  musical  fancies  pretty  much  as  Tiennet  did 
poor  Joset's  performance  on  the  cornemuse  in  Maitres 
Sonneurs." 

"Ah,  you  have  read  that  far,  have  you  ?" 

Just  then  Octave  approached  and  presented  Wolfmaister, 
more  from  the  desire  to  rid  himself  of  a  bore  than  to  give 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  105 

pleasure  to  any  one  of  us.  Wolfmaister  was  a  tall,  slender 
man,  with  small,  sharp  gray  eyes,  and  straight,  dark  hair, 
which  he  wore  long ;  he  had  a  shrill  high  voice,  and  a 
manner  of  expressing  himself  that  denoted  settled  opinions 
and  a  great  desire  to  be  considered  perfectly  rational  and 
free  from  nonsense.  We  talked  of  the  interesting  young 
artists  we  had  just  heard  ;  they  were  friends  of  his.  The 
father  was  preparing  them  both  for  public  exhibition. 

"  The  eldest  looks  already  as  if  she  suffered  from  too 
close  application,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "her  father  spoke  of  it  to  me  to 
night  ;  he  intends  resting  her  as  much  as  possible,  which 
she  can  scarcely  spare  the  time  to  do,  as  she  is  not  half  so 
quick  as  her  sister,  although  very  clever." 

"  Pity  her  father  should  make  a  violoncellist  of  her. 
Does  she  like  her  profession?" 

"Not  very  much;  but  you  see  it  looks  better:  it 
will  produce  a  finer  effect,  the  two  sisters  playing  to 
gether." 

"  Poor  child  !  has  she  a  mother  ?" 

"No;  their  mother  died  many  years  ago." 

The  curtain  just  then  rose,  and  the  little  violinist 
played  for  a  solo  a  passage  from  Euryanthe,  and  made  her 
violin  sound  like  a  woman's  voice,  full  of  deep  feeling,  at 
once  passionate  and  chaste.  Her  management  of  the 
harmonics  gave  a  delicious  sound,  crystalline  and  fairy- 
like,  carrying  my  imagination  off  into  that  supernatural 
world  of  which  Weber  is  the  high-priest  and  ruler.  The 
elder  one  sat  near  the  piano,  a  little  in  the  background, 
and  while  her  sister  drew  out  her  beautiful  music,  she  sat 
listening  with  a  sad,  wearied,  hopeless  look.  How  my. 
heart  yeai'ned  toward  her,  and  I  longed  to  take  the  poor 
child  in  my  arms  and  be  a  mother  to  her  ! — she  needed 
tender  nursing  and  loving  care. 


106  COMPENSA  TION; 

Some  four  or  five  years  after,  I  heard  this  same  young 
violinist,  Michela  Casini,  at  the  San  Carlo,  in  Naples. 
The  whole  musical  world  were  in  ecstasies  with  her  great 
genius  and  her  fine  execution  on  this  instrument,  so  rarely 
seen  in  the  hands  of  a  woman.  I  looked  in  vain  for  the 
poor  suffering  sister ;  a  celebrated  violoncellist  supplied 
her  place,  and  was  proud  to  accompany  Michela.  I  met 
her  afterward  at  a  soiree  at  Mercadante's,  and  made  her 
acquaintance.  After  I  was  sufficiently  intimate,  I  in 
quired  about  the  elder  sister,  and  heard  that  she  had  died 
about  two  years  after  I  had  first  listened  to  them  at  In 
stitution  Eperveil ;  the  disease  of  the  spine  just  showing 
itself  then  had  increased,  and  God  had  mercifully  relieved 
her  of  her  painful  life-burden.  Michela  Casini  has  led  a 
spotless  life  in  her  dangerous  position  of  successful  and 
flattered  woman-artist.  I  often  think,  fancifully  perhaps, 
that  her  sister's  spirit  has  been  allowed  to  float  around 
and  protect  her  from  the  temptations  surrounding  her ; 
for  the  memory  of  this  sister  is  a  treasured  thought  to 
her,  and  her  calm,  resigned  sorrow  for  her  death  gives 
depth  and  feeling  to  her  music. 

But  I  have  wandered  far  away  from  the  concert  at  In- 
.stitution  Eperveil.  After  this  exquisite  solo  of  Michela, 
we  had  an  animated  conversation  on  a  variety  of  subjects. 
Octave  condescended  to  be  amusing,  and  kept  our  little 
circle  in  convulsions  of  laughter.  He  told  us  a  droll  story 
of  Berlioz.  Some  one  had  said  that  the  author  of  the 
Symphony  of  Harold  would  not  dare  to  attack  realism 
in  music,  for  in  that  symphony  he  had  imitated  the  boil 
ing  of  lentils  or  haricots  in  a  porridge-pot.  Instead  of 
getting  angry  at  such  a,n  absurd  charge,  as  many  sensitive 
artists  would,  he  very  coolly  replied, — 

"  My  musical  critic  has  made  a  great  mistake,  but  I 
have  a  soul  sufficiently  large  to  pardon  him,  as  I  know  it 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  10f 

is  necessary  to  be  a  musician  by  profession  to  understand 
such  beauties  as  are  so  flagrantly  misunderstood  by  him. 
My  critical  amateur's  ear  should  have  more  experience 
before  he  presumes  upon  describing  such  delicate  expres 
sions.  The  sound  alluded  to  in  the  Symphony  of  Harold 
is  not  the  boiling  of  lentils  or  haricots,  but  the  boiling  of 
a  porridge-pot  of — beans !  My  critic  has  mistaken  the 
vegetable  entirely,  and  It  is  a  grave  mistake.  Just  think 
for  an  instant.  Beans  !  The  doctrine  of  Pythagoras  ! 
See  the  concatenation  of  suggestions.  Words  fail  me  to 
express  all  that  can  be  conjured  up  by  the  classical  im 
agination.  I  have  put  him  on  the  scent  now  by  this  dis 
closure.  I  have  opened  up  a  world  of  ideas  to  him.  I 
do  not  ask  for  gratitude,  but  leave  my  brother  amateur- 
critic  to  his  meditations." 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  to  describe  Octave's  in 
imitable  manner  of  giving  this  story.  Every  gesture, 
every  inflection  of  the  voice  was  filled  with  that  delicate 
bitter  humor  of  the  Parisian,  which  is  like  some  pungent 
scent,  as  biting  as  it  is  volatile.  Some  of  the  elder  stu 
dents  who  were  his  proteges  gathered  eagerly  around  us, 
and  a  small  minority,  not  of  the  elect,  tried  not  to  listen 
in  the  background ;  but  he  received  a  full  share  of  ap 
plause,  which  wTas  very  grateful  to  him,  for  he  had  that 
morbid  desire  for  approbation  which  Jefferson  calls  "a 
canine  love  of  praise."  While  we  were  enjoying  his  good 
humor,  word  came  that  the  elder  Casini  had  been  taken 
very  ill,  and  that  the  trio  they  had  intended  to  play  would 
have  to  be  given  up. 

"  Casini  wanted  Michela  to  play  another  solo,  but  she 
refused  with  a  show  of  temper  I  should  not  like  to  see  a 
daughter  of  mine  display,"  said  Wolfmaister,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "  Strange,  that  elder  one  is  mortally  afraid, 
of  her  father,  while  this  little  termagant  rules  him  like  a 
tyrant." 


108  COMPENSATION; 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  I  replied.  "  That  selfish,  calcu 
lating-looking  man  needs  something  like  that  to  keep  him 
in  order.  He  will  kill  that  eldest  girl !" 

"  Oh,"  said  Wolfmaister,  "you  are  allowing  your  preju 
dices  to  exaggerate  the  matter.  Casini  is  only  a  thrifty 
father,  with  a  commendable  deal  of  forethought  for  his 
children.  He  wishes  to  give  her  a  lucrative  profession ;  it 
is  not  his  fault  that  she  is  sickly.  How  many  are  there 
who  would  leave  her  to  earn  her  living  as  she  best  could 
at  seamstress- work  or  the  like." 

"And  I  have  no  doubt  he  would,"  I  answered,  "  if  he 
could  make  as  much  fame  and  fortune  by  it." 

Wolfmaister  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  off, 
while  Marie  gave  me  an  approving  nod.  Soon  after  he 
ascended  the  platform  and  played  a  solo  on  the  piano  in 
the  place  of  the  omitted  trio.  It  was  a  sonate  of  Hummel, 
as  clear  and  liquid  as  a  mountain  spring ;  but  it  suggested 
no  thought,  no  idea  for  the  imagination  to  dwell  on  or  de 
velop  ;  indeed,  it  was  nothing  but  fine  musical  versifica 
tion.  After  he  left  the  piano  and  joined  us,  I  compli 
mented  him  on  his  touch,  rapidity,  and  clearness  of  ex 
ecution. 

"Your  trill  is  exquisite:  it  has  all  the  throbbing  of  a 
bird's  warble." 

He  looked  immensely  gratified,  and  twisted  the  gummed 
ends  of  his  black  mustache  with  an  amusing  air  of  grati 
fied  self-conceit  as  he  said, — 

"  Hummel  I  place  among  the  first  masters  of  the  piano. 
If  I  have  any  merit  as  an  executant,  I  owe  it  to  my  close 
study  of  his  works.  There  is  a  limpidity,  a  clearness  of 
tone  obtained  by  studying  Hummel,  which  no  other  master 
gives." 

Marie  yawned  impatiently,  and  looked  entreatingly  at 
me  to  answer  him, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  109 

"  You  mean,"  I  said,  "  that  his  works  are  useful  for 
study  of  execution,  not  for  any  benefit  that  one  can  obtain 
in  the  way  of  expressing  musical  thought,  certainly.  To 
be  sure,  I  am  not  an  instrumentalist ;  the  little  I  do  in 
the  way  of  music  is  with  my  voice,  and  therefore  I 
should  not  depend  on  my  fancy  and  liking  as  correct  in 
strumental  taste,  yet  I  must  confess  Hummel's  works  do 
not  satisfy' me." 

"  Oh,"  replied  Wolfmaister,  in  that  civil  overbearing 
tone  so  many  men  use  when  discussing  with  a  woman, 
"that  is  because  you  are  not  sufficiently  acquainted  with 
his  works.  His  rondo  in  A,  for  example,  and  indeed  the 
majority  of  his  musical  compositions,  are  of  the  purest 
and  highest  style." 

Wolfmaister  looked  profound  and  learned  as  he  enun 
ciated  this  settled  opinion  as  a  fixed  fact,  and  I  remained 
silent,  as  I  always  do  when  put  down  by  a  noun  of  the 
masculine  gender.  Had  he  been  an  intelligent  woman,  I 
should  have  given  my  reasons  for  my  difference  of  opinion, 
certain  of  being  allowed  to  express  myself  calmly  and 
clearly  without  any  assumption  of  superior  knowledge  on 
her  part  to  silence  me  ;  and  even  if  we  continued  to  differ 
we  would  do  so  with  mutual  courtesy  and  respect  for  each 
other's  right  to  have  a  different  opinion.  But  with  very 
few  men  can  women  argue  ;  the  man  grows  imperious,  the 
woman  resentful,  and  the  conversation  is  apt  to  end  a 
little  too  volcanic  in  its  temperature  for  peace-loving  dis 
positions. 

A  little  while  after  Marie  came  to  me  and  said, — 

"  I  am  going  to  play." 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"  I  shall  not  tell  you.  I  shall  leave  you  to  be  my  Bru- 
lette." 

The  permission  to  read  some  of  Madame  Sand's  works 
10 


110  COMPENSA  TION; 

had  been  given  by  her  liberal-minded,  indulgent  father,  with 
the  responsibility  placed  on  me  of  selecting  them  for  her,  a 
responsibility  I  was  quite  willing  to  take ;  and  the  first  ones 
I  had  given  her  were  "  Maitres  Sonneurs"  and  "  Lettres 
d'un  Voyageur,"  which  two  had  made  a  strong  impression 
on  her ;  she  was  constantly  repeating  some  striking  artistic 
description  or  some  concise  artistic  definition.  From  her 
last  words  I  supposed  she  was  about  to  play  one  of  her  own 
compositions  or  arrangements,  which  she  was  just  in  that 
transition  state  to  throw  out  freely  ;  she  had  mastered  the 
difficulties  of  form, — the  mysteries  of  counterpoint,  which 
are  like  feet,  accent,  and  grammatical  rhythm  to  the  poet, — 
and  her  fresh  young  imagination,  thus  untrammeled,  was 
eager  to  use  its  wings.  The  characteristics  of  Marie's 
compositions  at  that  time  were  a  very  lively  feeling  for 
certain  beauties ;  an  accent  of  grandeur  and  melancholy 
ran  like  a  burning  lava  stream  through  all  her  chords  and 
resolutions ;  there  might  have  been  observed  a  little  too 
free  a  use  of  difficult  modulations,  strange  combinations  of 
distant  intervals,  which  arose  from  a  natural  exultation  she 
felt  at  the  power  she  had  obtained  by  mastering  so  difficult 
a  study  as  harmony ;  but  her  taste,  if  it  was  not  always 
free  from  the  exaggeration  of  mere  technical  difficulties, 
was  never  common  ;  and  in  her  arrangements  of  the  themes 
from  other  authors  she  displayed  a  skill  which  was  very 
clever,  of  taking  to  herself  the  motifs  that  she  was  devel 
oping,  mai'king  them  with  her  own  personal  seal,  as  it 
were,  giving  them  an  originality  and  making  of  them 
veritable  creations. 

This  etude  or  sketch  which  she  played  was  full  of  gran 
deur  ;  but  the  thought  was  imperfectly  developed  and  the 
execution  inexact.  The  idea  she  desired  to  express  was 
evidently  beyond  her -powers;  it  was  a  sketch  of  some 
vision  of  her  spirit ;  as  she  advanced  in  it  I  fancied  that 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  \\\ 

it  was  the  memory  of  some  of  those  dreams  we  have  at 
certain  seasons,  when  it  seems  as  if  the  spirit  had  been 
emancipated  by  sleep  from  its  mortal  part  and  able  to  soar 
off  into  a  purer  element.  But  in  sketching  from  memory, 
in  endeavoring  to  give  her  recollection  to  mortal  ears,  it 
was  evident  that  her  own  mental  and  mortal  nature  had 
interfered.  One  felt  as  if,  at  the  period  of  composition, 
her  whole  being  had  been  influenced  by  the  preoccupation 
of  some  sad  thought,  like  a  remembrance  or  anticipation 
of  trouble.  The  whole  piece  was  vague  and  disjointed; 
but  it  affected  me  deeply,  because  I  was  beginning  to  un 
derstand  the  girFs  character,  and  learning  to  love  as  well 
as  admire  her.  But  the  composition  naturally  fell  lifeless 
on  the  ears  of  her  audience ;  with  the  sensitiveness  of  a 
true  artist,  she  felt  this,  and  rose  from  the  piano  wearied 
and  dispirited,  looking  as  gray  as  a  moth  in  her  ashen 
paleness. 

"  See  if  I  deserve  the  name  of  your  Brulette."  I  asked, 
taking  her  little  cold  hand  affectionately.  "  Your  piece 
was  a  dream,  was  it  not  ?  With  visions  and  fancies  far 
beyond  rude,  dull  mortal  comprehensions." 

Her  eyes  grew  bright,  and  the  pupils  of  them  dilated  in 
a  manner  peculiar  to  her  when  she  felt  deeply  touched. 

"  Yes,  you  are  iny  Brulette  ;  God  bless  you  !"  she  said, 
pressing  my  hand.  "  You  are  right ;  it  is  a  dream  sug 
gested  by  that  passage  in  '  Lettres  d'un  Yoyageur,'  where 
Madame  Sand  speaks  of  being  visited  in  her  dreams  by 
unknown  friends,  who,  while  she  is  seated  on  a  sandy  shore, 
alone  and  sad,  come  to  her  in  a  gay  bark  and  invite  her  to 
join  them,  saying,  'Why  have  you  tarried?  we  have 
waited  so  long  for  you.'  She  goes  with  them,  and  they 
float  off  to  an  unknown  land,  a  land  of  enchantment,  where 
all  is  brilliant  and  gay — the  flowers  unfading,  the  odors 
ever  fresh,  fountains  whose  perfumed  sparkling  waters  fall 


112  COMPENSATION; 

into  silver  basins ;  blue  roses  bloom  in  rare  china  vases  ; 
from  the  long  vistas  of  trees  open  enchanting  perspectives ; 
the  ground  is  covered  with  a  moss-like  velvet,  on  which 
they  dance  unshod ;  the  men  and  women  are  young  and 
beautiful,  crowned  with  flowers,  their  rich  hair  floating ; 
they  hold  in  their  hands  goblets  and  harps  of  strange 
forms  ;  their  songs  and  their  voices  are  not  of  this  world  ; 
their  emotions  are  holy,  pure  loves  ;  and  they  feel  a  happi 
ness  also  unknown  to  poor  mortals.". 

While  she  was  repeating  this  to  me  in  an  earnest,  low 
tone,  Wolfmaister  came  up  to  take  leave  and  to  present  his 
wife,  a  sweet,  gentle  little  Swiss  woman,  whose  natural 
manners  pleased  me  exceedingly. 

"Ah,  Marie,"  he  said,  "the  composer  of  your  dream, 
whose  name  you  will  not  tell  me,  is  one  of  those  incom 
prehensible  aesthetical  composers  so  plenty  now-a-days, 
who  take  unformed,  crude,  vague  imaginings  for  thought, 
and  exaggerations  of  sotto  voce  for  an  expression  of  deep 
feeling.  You  had  better  keep  clear  of  all  such  eccentric 
productions,  and  get  your  style  and  taste  firmly  based  on 
solid  models.  Study  Hummel  more,  my  pupil." 

Maria  winced,  but  said  nothing.  After  he  left,  she  burst 
out  with  "Wolfmaister  isi'ight;  it  is  a  crude,  vague  thing; 
I  know  it  as  well  as  any  one  can  tell  me,"  and  a  hot  tear 
of  bitter  mortification  rolled  down  her  cheek.  "  I  do  not 
satisfy  myself,"  she  continued.  "Oh,  Fanny  Fauvette  !  it 
is  in  me,  and  surely  the  power  of  expression  will  be  given 
me  some  day." 

I  laughed  at  her  for  taking  his  rough  criticisms  so  much 
to  heart,  and  encouraged  her  by  telling  her  all  the  pleasant 
thoughts  I  felt  about  her  and  her  genius. 

"  Hush !"  she  said,  kissing  me  on  either  cheek  affection 
ately  ;  "  you  must  not  flatter  me  so,  or  I  shall  never  do  any 
thing  but  grow  conceited." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  Hg 

"  I  do  not  believe  that,"  I  answered  ;  "  the  good  opinion 
of  those  we  love  is  an  incitement.  We  have  enough  dis 
paragement  from  the  envious  or  indifferent ;  enough  dis 
couragement  and  misgivings  in  our  own  hearts  to  depress 
us  ;  we  have  nothing  to  hold  us  up  and  spur  us  on  but  the 
ambition  to  attain  to  not  only  our  own  standard,  but  to 
that  which  the  faith  of  those  who  love  us  indulgently  has 
made  for  us." 

We  were  interrupted,  and  I  went  to  bid  adieu  to  Madame 
Eperveil  and  thank  her  in  the  prettiest  words  I  could  find 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  evening.  She  gave  me  earnest  and 
gracious  invitations  to  visit  her  frequently  and  sociably, 
and  after  a  multitude  of  courtesies — as  Octave  said  with 
playful  malice,  like  two  ladies  of  olden  times  preparing  to 
dance  a  minuet  cb  la  cour — we  parted ;  I  joined  the  Bou- 
vreuils  and  Merles,  and  we  left  Institution  Eperveil. 


10* 


114  COMPENSA  TION; 


CHAPTER  X. 

LES   CRETES. 

THE  autumn  weather  had  opened  so  finely  that  it  tempted 
me  out  almost  daily.  My  gipsy  way  of  enjoying  open-air 
life  caused  some  surprise  and  amusement  to  my  Peilz 
friends.  They  were  accustomed  to  making  long  excur 
sions,  taking  long  mountain  walks  for  some  particular  pur 
pose,  such  as  to  see  a  fine  extended  view,  or  to  visit  some 
remarkable  waterfall  or  little  mountain  lake  ;  expeditions 
where  the  fatigue  always  counterbalanced  the  pleasure,  to 
one  who  had  so  little  physical  strength  as  I  had  to  spare. 
But  they  had  not  the  pleasant  habit  of  taking  baskets  of 
books  and  work  and  spending  the  whole  day  in  some 
woody  nook,  where  they  could  read,  and  talk,  and  sew,  to 
the  sweet  accompaniment  of  the  wind  rushing  through  the 
trees,  and  the  rush  and  plash  of  the  waters  of  mountain 
streams. 

Tante  Octavie  said  it  might  do  well  enough  for  people 
who  had  plenty  of  time,  and  a  dozen  coaches  and  valets  to 
transport  their  luggage  and  wait  on  them,  while  they  did 
nothing  but  lounge  about  in  picturesque  costumes ;  but  so 
far  as  the  performance  of  any  real  work  or  study  was  con 
cerned,  the  four  walls  of  a  house  made  the  best  place  for 
its  accomplishment.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  the 
announcing  of  this  opinion  of  the  family  oracle  which  in 
fluenced  Madame  Bouvreuil  and  Helene,  or  whether  it  was 
that  they  really  did  not  like  such  excursions ;  for  while 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  115 

they  good-humoredly  endeavored  to  understand  the  pleas 
ure  it  gave  me,  they  never  joined  me,  except  once  in  awhile, 
when  they  would  come  in  the  after-part  of  the  day  to  meet 
me  and  accompany  me  on  my  walk  home,  and  confined 
their  sympathy  to  the  preparation  of  nice  dinner-baskets — 
a  sympathy,  however,  which  was  not  without  its  value, 
and  which  I  fully  appreciated  when  at  mid-day  my  appe 
tite  would  be  finely  sharpened  by  fresh  air ;  but  at  the 
same  time  I  should  have  liked  also  to  have  had  their  so 
ciety.  Marie  and  Tante  Cecile,  however,  took  to  these 
"days  in  the  woods"  immediately,  especially  the  latter, 
who,  whenever  she  could  arrange  the  home  department  in 
a  manner  to  work  well  without  her,  joined  me,  and  always 
urged  Marie  to  do  so  when  she  could  not. 

"  I  remember  with  so  much  pleasure,"  she  said  one  even 
ing,  "  some  years  of  my  girlhood  which  were  spent  with 
an  uncle  who  lived  in  the  North  of  Germany.  He  owned 
a  handsome  estate  in  the  country,  on  which  were-  all  the 
agreeable  accessories  of  a  forest,  with  moss-covered  walks 
and  banks,  waterfalls,  hills,  and  dales,  and  even  a  pretty 
little  glassy  lake.  There  was  a  large  family  of  cousins,  a 
bright  intelligent  set,  all  dead  now,"  and  the  old  lady 
sighed  gently.  "  Well,  these  days  in  the  woods  remind 
me  of  those  pleasant  times  of  my  youth.  During  all  the 
favorable  months  of  the  year  my  uncle  and  his  family  lived 
in  the  open  air — that  is,  all  the  waking  hours  of  the  day. 
We  sang,  danced,  read,  talked,  and  even  took  our  meals  in 
this  charming  sylvan  place.  My  uncle  and  his  children 
were  all  passionate  lovers  of  the  drama,  especially  of  the 
works  of  the  great  English  dramatist  Shakspeare,  and  they 
often  acted  those  of  his  plays  which  suited  their  forest 
glades.  We  used  to  act  'Midsummer  Night's  Dream,' 
'As  you  like  it,'  'Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,'  and  'Love's 
Labor  Lost,'  with  great  glee,  under  the  old  trees." 


116  COMPENSA  TION ; 

"Your  way  of  visiting  the  woods,  however,"  I  replied, 
"  was  in  the  way  Madame  Eperveil  condescended  to  ap 
prove  of,  '  with  plenty  of  valets,'  etc. ;  but  I  am  content  to 
enjoy  the  woods  more  humbly  and  without  so  much  luxury." 

"  And  enjoy  it  quite  as  much,"  she  rejoined,  "  and  prob 
ably  more  than  if  you  had  a  half-dozen  liveried  valets, 
for  with  great  wealth  are  apt  to  come  conventionalisms, 
and  they  mar  all  natural  pleasures.  No,  I  think  you  and 
Marie  enjoy  your  woodland  sojournings,  and  will  recall 
them  in  after-years  with  as  much  pleasure  as  I  do  the  more 
luxurious  memory  of  my  youth.  I  have  no  doubt,  conven 
tionalisms  often  spoiled  the  enjoyment  of  my  uncle  and 
cousins ;  but  I  was  too  young  to  recognize  such  artificial 
constraints,  and  at  that  happy  age  when  one  sees  only  the 
brightest  and  easiest  side  of  a  pleasure." 

I  had  gone  round  to  the  chateau  to  tell  them  of  a  sweet 
day  I  had  spent  at  Les  Cretes  alone,  the  day  before,  and 
also  to  urge  them  to  go  with  me  the  following  day  to  the 
same  place.  While  we  were  talking,  Octave  and  a  student 
from  the  institution,  a  young  Englishman  named  Gardner, 
who  played  on  the  violoncello  tolerably  well,  came  in. 
They  had  brought  their  instruments,  and  wished  to  prac 
tice  with  Marie  some  trios.  They  took  up  the  grand  trio 
of  Fesca,  that  brilliant  production  of  that  remarkable,  way 
ward  genius,  and  I  sat  listening,  with  my  heart  full  of  mem 
ories,  which  this  trio  summoned  up  as  if  by  magical  power. 
Octave  played  the  violin  very  well ;  his  tone  was  clear  and 
just,  not  tender,  but  full  of  diablerie,  which  characteristic 
told  well  in  the  Fesca  music ;  he  gave  it  just  that  cutting, 
sarcastic  expression  it  needed.  A  wild,  merry,  careless 
imp  seemed  to  sit  astride  the  bridge  when  his  bow  played 
across  the  strings,  and  sang  out  with  fearless,  mad  glee 
the  reckless  melody  of  the  composer,  whose  works  seemed 
to  repeat  his  own  life-faith,  which  was  like  that  of  Mar- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  117 

shal  Saxe :  "  La  me  est  un  songe ;  le  mien  a  ete  court,  mais 
il  a  ete  beau." 

After  hearing  them  play  twice  over  this  beautiful  trio,  I 
asked  Octave  to  sing,  and  he  selected  Don  Giovanni,  out 
of  which,  with  Gardner's  help,  who  had  a  pretty  good 
basso  voice,  we  sang  the  exquisite  trio,  Ah  tad  ingiusto 
core.  Then  Octave  sang  La  ci  darem  la  mano  with  me, 
and  then  alone  II  mio  tesoro.  His  voice  was  a  delicious 
baritone,  very  mellow  and  flexible.  He  sang  with  a  great 
deal  of  expression,  and  sometimes  it  even  sounded  like 
deep  feeling.  After  the  singing,  we  got  into  a  long  talk 
over  the  music  of  Don  Giovanni,  or  rather  Octave  did  the 
talking  and  we  the  listening.  It  arose  from  my  saying 
that  when  Beethoven  was  asked  which  one  of  Mozart's 
operas  he  preferred,  without  hesitation  he  pronounced  The 
Magic  Flute  his  master-piece. 

"I  should  suppose,"  said  Octave  sneeringly,  "that 
would  have  been  the  opinion  of  a  man  who  wrote  a  sym 
phony,  put  words  to  it,  and  then  wished  to  have  it  called 
an  opera." 

"  Not  a  word  against  Fidelio,  heretic !"  cried  Marie. 

"  Not  unless  you  persist  in  calling  it  an  opera,  which  it 
is  not.  However,  do  not  let  us  get  on  that  never-ending 
Beethoven  argument.  Don  Giovanni,  Mademoiselle  Fau- 
vette,  is  the  greatest  opera,  indeed  the  only  opera  of  that 
epoch." 

We  did  not  pretend  to  dispute  with  him,  for  we  all  loved 
to  listen  to  him  in  his  eloquent  moods,  and  the  music  had 
just  excited  him  enough  to  make  him  superb.  He  walked 
up  and  down  the  chateau  salon,  and  discoursed  on  the 
Mozart  theme  until  near  midnight,  his  graceful  form  shown 
to  every  advantage  by  his  animated  motions,  the  eloquent 
action  of  his  beautiful  hand,  and  the  expression  of  his 
sparkling  handsome  face,  with  the  brilliant  eyes  and  luxu- 


118  COMPENSA  TION; 

riant  dark  hair  floating  picturesquely  over  his  temples.  I 
could  not  pretend  to  give  even  a  slight  idea  of  his  elo 
quence,  for  it  was  like  that  of  the  improvisatore,  as  evanes 
cent  as  the  rainbow  on  the  fast-rushing  ocean  wave. 

He  illustrated  his  subject  by  singing  different  passages 
of  the  opera  to  Marie's  fine  accompaniment,  and  threw  in 
every  variety  of  expression  as  it  was  needed ;  there  was 
the  lubberly  Masetto,  and  the  roguish  Leporello  ;  the  sigh 
ing,  sad  Don  Ottavio,  and  the  elegant  rascal  Don  Giovanni. 
Then  he  made  Marie  and  Gardner  help  him  in  the  scene 
in  the  cemetery,  where  Don  Giovanni  gives  the  defiant 
invitation  to  the  statue  of  the  Commendatore.  First,  he 
brought  up  before  us,  by  rapid,  vivid  word-sketchings,  the 
appearance  of  the  graveyard,  the  dark  gusty  night,  and  the 
remorseful  wind  moaning  through  the  trees.  When  he 
sang  the  bold  bravado  of  the  murderer  to  the  stone  effigy 
placed  over  the  grave  of  his  victim, — 

"Parlate!  se  potete  :  Vereteacena?   Verete  a  cena?" 

and  the  reply  of  the  Commendatore,  "  Si !"  came  out  in  the 
solemn  note  of  the  piano, — that  strange  E  major,  which 
makes  just  in  that  passage  such  a  peculiarly  ghastly 
sound, — it  made  us  all  shudder ;  and  the  powerful  effect 
produced  was  heightened  by  Octave  hissing  out,  in  snake- 
like  tones,  the  mad,  reckless,  even  devilish  rejoinder, — 

"  Bizarra  e  in  ver  la  scena,  verra  il  buon  veoehio  a  cena,  •     . 

A  preparar  la  andiamo,  partiamo  via  di  qua." 

At  last  we  bade  good  night,  and  separated ;  Marie  agree 
ing  to  go  with  me  next  day  to  Les  Cretes,  Tante  Cecile, 
with  real  sorrow,  regretting  her  inability  to  accompany  us. 

According  to  agreement,  Dora,  Beau,  and  I  were  ready 
early.  Marie  did  not  keep  us  long  waiting,  and  before 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  119 

eight  o'clock  we  were  on  the  road  for  Les  Cretes.  It  was 
a  delicious  autumn  day.  The  grapes  were  hanging  in  rich 
golden  clusters  on  the  vines,  the  hay  lay  in  fragrant  heaps 
on  the  little  fields,  the  nuts  and  fruit  were  weighing  the 
tree-branches  down  to  the  grassy  earth,  and  everywhere 
the  ground  was  covered  with  the  delicate  lilac-colored  au 
tumn  crocus.  The  ivy  and  moss  crept  over  every  old  wall 
and  chestnut  trunk,  and  their  various  shades  of  vivid  green 
mingled  harmoniously  with  the  purple  flowers  and  young 
red  leaves  of  the  bindweeds,  while  tufts  of  delicate  fern 
peeped  out  here  and  there. 

While  Dora  was  arranging  our  books  and  shawls  behind 
the  little  western  hill  of  Les  Cretes,  where  we  might  sit 
sheltered  effectually  from  the  sight  of  other  pedestrian 
visitors  to  this  lovely  spot,  Marie  and  I  clambered  up  and 
down  the  banks,  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  woody  hill  over 
hanging  the  terraced  vineyards  which  led  down  to  the  lake 
road,  and  admired  for  the  thousandth  time  the  beautiful 
shore  of  our  lovely  Lake  of  the  Desert.  There  lay  Clarens 
and  Vernet,  basking  in  the  morning  sun ;  and  Veytaux 
and  Montreux,  nestling  behind  the  mountains,  seemed 
scarcely  awakened.  Numberless  little  boats  stood  perched 
on  the  glassy  bosom  of  the  lake,  looking  just  ready  to  flap 
their  sail  wings  and  soar  aloft,  like  some  huge  grebe,  into 
the  clouds.  The  surface  of  the  lake  was  like  a  polished 
steel  mirror,  showing  different  shades  of  light,  but  not  one 
ripple  that  could  give  a  sign  of  its  being  water.  A  steamer 
passed,  cutting  swiftly  through  the  blue  glassy  mass ;  it 
made  a  path  for  itself,  and  threw  up,  instead  of  spray  or 
feathery  foam,  hard  sparkling  balls,  which  fell  on  the  sur 
face  of  the  lake  like  hailstones,  shivering  into  numberless 
smaller  balls,  which  rebounded  off  aud  disappeared  as  if 
touching  some  hard  icy  substance ;  and  behind  the  steamer 
the  path  seemed  to  close  instantly,  leaving  only  a  line  of  a 


120  COMPENSATION; 

little  lighter  shade  to  mark  the  track  of  the  boat ;  it  looked 
tempting  and  made  one  long  to  walk  on  it. 

"Now  Kinnaird  Graham,"  said  Marie,  "would  give  us 
scientific,  philosophical  reasons  for  that  appearance  of  the 
lake, — atmospheric  pressure,  and  all  that, — but  I  like  to 
forget  all  sensible  reasons  for  it,  and  would  rather  imagine 
it  to  be  some  strange  mysterious  power  that  weighs  over 
it  at  early  morn,  noonday,  and  sunset." 

"  You  would  have  a  morning,  noonday,  and  evening 
demon  then,  Marie?"  I  asked,  with  a  laugh. 

"  As  many  as  you  please,  Fanny,  if  you  will  only  take 
some  of  the  material  out  of  life  and  give  it  a  little  more 
fancy.  Do  you  remember  what  Topffer  said,  when  he 
visited  the  Intermittent  Fountain,  on  his  Promenade  au 
Grande  Chartreuse?" 

I  did  not,  and  Marie  repeated  this  fine  passage  : — 

"  It  belongs  to  the  learned  to  seek  out  and  tell  the  cause 
of  this  phenomenon  ;  for  my  part  I  do  not  wish  to  know  it ; 
with  the  ignorant  who  visit  this  spring,  or,  still  better,  with 
the  poets  who  contemplate  it,  I  love  better  to  drink  of  its 
bright  waters  than  sound  them.  It  is  still  a  question  to 
be  decided,  if  science  and  poesy  are  two  sisters  who  can 
live  in  good  friendship  under  the  same  roof — the  one 
dreamy,  with  distaff  in  her  hand  ;  the  other,  restless,  act 
ive,  and  incessantly  occupied  with  weighing,  pounding, 
and  filtering;  or  if  they  are  to  be  two  irreconcilable  ene 
mies,  one  striving  to  stifle  the  other,  or  at  least  chase  her 
from  the  dwelling.  So  long  as  science  remained  as  she 
was  in  antiquity, — religious,  conjectural,  and  contempla 
tive, — she  was  poesy  itself;  and  instead  of  the  two  sisters 
who  now-a-days  have  so  much  difficulty  in  agreeing,  there 
were  then  nine  who  lived  peaceably  united  under  the 
shades  of  Helicon,  where  they  related  to  each  other  a  fine 
verse,  as  well  as  the  marvels  of  the  firmament,  the  enchant- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  121 

ing  loveliness  of  the  earth,  the  eloquence  of  passion,  and 
the  secrets  of  human  destiny.  But  now-a-days,  science, 
distrustful  of  belief,  hostile  to  everything  which  cannot  be 
verified  by  sensation,  sets  herself  up  as  a  supreme  dictator ; 
she  has  become  the  study  of  mere  matter.  Despoiled  as 
much  as  possible  of  her  sumptuous  appearance,  of  her 
numberless  graces,  all  the  beneficent  attributes  with  which 
the  Creator  ornamented  her,  each  step  of  her  progress 
causes  a  stone  to  fall  in  the  crumbling  edifice  of  poesy, 
and  each  one  of  her  lights  destroys,  it  is  true,  on  all  sides, 
every  mystery ;  but  it  is  a  fire  which,  while  it  illuminates, 
devours !" 

Then  we  talked  of  music ;  and,  naturally,  of  Octave's 
playing,  and  singing,  and  eloquent  talking. 

"  What  a  bewitching,  captivating  diablerie  he  threw  into 
that  allegro  of  Fesca  !"  I  said  ;  "  and  how  his  superb  eyes 
glowed !  Then,  when  he  sang  La  ci  darem  la  mano  with 
me,  I  thought  very  charitably  of  the  naughty  little  Zer- 
lina's  dubious  flirting,  as  I  listened  to  his-  seductive  voice. 
He  was  the  veritable  Don  Giovanni  for  the  nonce." 

Marie  stood  half  leaning,  half  swinging  against  an  old 
chestnut-tree,  which,  growing  very  crooked,  hung  over  the 
upper  vineyard  ;  and  she  seemed  lost  in  deep  reverie  as  she 
looked  down  on  the  brilliant  mirror  of  the  lake.  I  almost 
doubted  if  she  heard  my  praises  of  Octave. 

"  It  is  very  sad !"  she  said  slowly ;  then  paused. 

"  What  is  sad  ?"  I  asked. 

She  looked  up  sharply  at  me,  as  if  suddenly  becoming 
conscious  of  my  presence,  and  her  large  brown  eyes  dilated 
as  do  those  of  a  bird.  She  continued  : — 

"  Music,  you  must  admit,  Fanny,  is  to  a  great  extent  a 
matter  of  .sense.  I  grow  more  and  more  convinced  daily 
that  the  execution  of  this  art,  which  seems  to  have  so  much 

11 


122  CO  MP  ENS  A  TION; 

that  is  divine  in  it,  is  not  elevating  in  its  influence  over 
every  one." 

I  wanted  to  combat  her  opinion,  but  I  felt  sure  she  was 
only  thinking  aloud,  like  the  professor,  and  working  the 
subject  around  in  her  mind  in  order  to  arrive  at  a  satisfac 
tory  conclusion.  After  a  little  silence  she  resumed  : — 

"  You  find  that  great  composers  are  always  better  in 
their  lives  than  great  executants ;  these  last  have  to  give 
mortal  sound  to  the  voluptuous  expression,  the  tender  rise 
and  fall  of  the  sweet  sighing  sounds,  or  the  bursts  of  pas 
sion  which  the  composer  imagines.  I  may  be  wrong,  my 
friend,  I  have  so  little  knowledge  of  the  out-door  world;  but 
indeed  it  seems  to  me  that  the  artist-executant,  to  give  to 
the  vibrating  throbbing  tone  feeling,  mortal  life,  must  be 
filled  with  sensuousness." 

"  Thank  you  for  that  word,"  I  said  with  a  laugh  and  a 
long  breath  of  relieved  mock  anxiety,  "  and  for  no  worse 
one.  I  have  been  waiting  to  see  \vhat  you  would  arrive 
at.  Pray  go  on,  for  you  are  not  quite  clear  yet." 

"  Oh  !"  she  answered  quickly,  "  you  could  not  have 
thought  I  meant  sensuality,  for  that  would  chill  and  vul 
garize  all  expression ;  but  the  artist-executant  must  have 
his  feelings  correspond  with  the  music  he  wishes  to  ex 
press;  the  mysterious  throbbing  that  beats  in  Chopin,  for 
example,  or  the  tumultuous  ocean  of  feeling  we  find  in 
Beethoven,  where  the  poor  human  bark  toils  along  strug 
gling  against  a  head-wind  and  a  fierce,  contrary-surging 
current;  or  the  hot  lava-tide  of  love,  passion,  and  mortal 
appetite,  coursing  through  Fesca.  And  this  is  sad,  this 
curse  of  mortality  resting  on  music-utterance  in  this  life, 
for  the  artist-executant  is  but  mortal ;  and,  being  in  this 
dangerous  state  that  only  an  angel  could  bear,  he  may 
sway  and  fall." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  123 

I  did  not  contend  directly  with  her,  as  I  would  have 
done  with  another  situated  differently,  for  I  knew  she  was 
thinking  of  Octave,  and  of  the  various  temptations  that 
she  tried  to  fancy  his  many  gifts  of  mind  and  person  ex 
posed  him  to.  I  wanted  to  cite  numberless  instances 
where  as  rare  gifts  had  been  allied  to  purity  of  character, 
— artist-executants  I  had  known  whose  lives  were  as 
spotless  as  their  genius  was  sparkling, — and  to  tell  her 
that  what  was  faulty  iu  Octave  did  not  arise  from  that 
which  was  beautiful  in  him,  but  from  that  which  was  un 
lovely :  from  his  selfishness,  his  indolence,  and  his  "canine 
love  "  of  that  which  gave  him  unlicensed  gratification  in 
every  desire.  I  could  not  tell  her  all  this.  I  felt  that  her 
mind  must  work  it  out  itself.  I  had  faith  in  her.  I  knew 
that  love  might  blind  her  for  awhile,  but  that  the  true 
knowledge  was  in  her  and  would  clear  away  all  mists  of 
infatuation. 

I  turaed  the  conversation  on  the  different  styles  of  exe 
cution  of  various  pianists  we  had  heard  in  public,  and  the 
eifect  or  influence  they  had  produced  on  us ;  this  led  her 
to  say: — 

"I  heard  during  two  different  visits  to  Vienna  those 
great  artists,  Thalberg  and  Liszt.  One,  you  know,  is  said 
to  be  material  and  calculating,  the  other  just  the  reverse. 
Let  me  tell  you  the  effect  produced  on  me  by  each.  I 
heard  Thalberg  first.  After  hearing  him,  I  returned  home 
cold,  dry,  and  hard,  but  very  industrious.  I  attacked  Bach 
for  the  first  time  effectually.  Thalberg's  playing  is  the 
perfection  of  one  kind  of  expression ;  not  of  feeling,  how 
ever.  It  is,  as  De  Lanz  says,  '  the  playing  of  a  man  of 
the  world ;  it  is  this  which  excludes  all  idea  of  poesy  at 
taching  itself  to  his  music.'  I  felt  that  something  was 
wanting ;  it  sounded  like  ice-rain  on  a  plate  of  steel.  He 
seemed  resolute  and  business-like  in  his  art,  as  if  he  made 


124  COMPENSATION; 

of  it  what  other  men  make  of  their  buying  and  selling — a 
trade.  He  did  me  this  good,  however :  I  studied  hard  for 
months  ;  no  fire,  no  poet  heat,  to  be  sure,  but  at  the  same 
time  no  poet  languor.  My  touch  grew  exact,  and  my  tone 
clear  and  crisp,  for  I  was  always  thinking  of  that  ice-rain. 
Again  I  went  to  Vienna,  and  heard  Liszt.  Oh,  Fanny, 
what  an  awakening  to  my  whole  nature  did  his  music 
cause !  it  was  the  ice-rain  still,  but  the  steel  plate  was 
burning,  seething  -hot.  Do  not  laugh  at  me  when  I  tell 
you  that  every  piece  was  delicious  agony.  He  seemed 
the  poet  of  the  instrument,  an  inspired  rhapsodist ;  and 
everything  he  played  appeared  as  if  it  sprang  from  his 
brain  and  the  instrument,  created  in  its  perfect  loveliness 
at  one  and  the  same  moment.  One  night  he  played  one 
of  his  own  Hungarian  marches.  What  fire,  what  arch 
angel  life  !  And  at  the  close,  when  the  applause  was 
deafening,  he  returned  to  the  platform  and  resumed  his 
seat  at  the  piano.  The  room  was  silent  in  an  instant ; 
he  sat  as  if  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  the  audience, 
and  gazed  for  a  moment  or  so  up,  just  as  he  looks  in  that 
picture  there  of  the  '  Matinee  at  Liszt's ;'  the  same  in 
spired,  youthful  expression  ;  then  there  came  pouring  out 
that  largo  of  Beethoven,  in  the  sonate  D  minor,  Opus  29. 
What  unearthly  strength  he  displayed !  it  roared  like  the 
dash  of  the  waves  of  our  beautiful  lake  in  a  storm,  when 
the  waters  seem  to  rush  madly  up  as  if  to  avoid  the  cold 
Rhone  torrent ;  the  recitative  passage  made  a  solemn 
pause,  to  tell  all  its  woes ;  in  vain,  the  stern  necessity 
rolled  on,  and  it  was  like  the  cold,  icy  flood  penetrating  to 
the  quivering  heart-core  of  the  poor  lake,  while  there 
thundered  out  the  rushing  turmoil  of  nature,  the  roar  of 
the  wind,  the  tossing  of  the  forest  tree-tops,  the  muffled 
tramp  of  a  distant  avalanche  hurrying  down  a  ravine,  all 
sweeping  on  in  the  renewed  combinations  of  chords !  I 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  125 

leaned  my  head  on  my  hands,  and  wept.  That  night  I 
could  not  sleep ;  I  tossed  to  and  fro  in  troubled,  inexpli 
cable  pain.  I  returned  home  a  few  days  after.  No  Bach, 
no  study  for  me,  after  that  revelation ;  or,  at  least,  not 
what  Wolfmaister  would  call  study.  I  just  rambled  over 
the  keys  of  the  piano  in  a  reverie,  sometimes  exquisite, 
sometimes  painful.  About  that  time  Chopin's  music  first 
fell  into  my  hands,  and  it  was  like  a  new  world  to  me — a 
world  lighted  with  rays  more  brilliant  and  more  divine 
than  a.ny  earthly  light.  I  lived  and  breathed  only  in  his 
compositions,  and  for  the  first  time  I  felt  born  within  me 
the  desire  to  be  a  poet.  For,  oh,  Fanny  Fauvette,  it  is 
sad  to  be  only  the  artist-executant,  not  the  composer,  the 
creator!" 

Dora  came  just  then  to  tell  us  that  our  little  woody  nook 
was  ready  for  us,  and  we  established  ourselves  there  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  On  one  side  we  could  look  down  the 
bank,  and  through  the  branches  see  a  little  bit  of  the  lake, 
and  on  the  other  side  gaze  out  through  the  leaves  of  the 
old  chestnut-trees  on  Dent  de  Jaman,  whose  tower-like 
peak  lay  gray  and  clear  against  the  blue  sky.  We  had 
brought  with  us  books  and  sewing,  and  by  turns  read  to 
each  other,  then  talked  pleasant  nonsense  and  compared 
our  embroidery,  or  leaned  back  lazily  against  the  trees 
and  watched  the  clouds  winding  around  the  mountains, 
and  listened  to  the  fall  of  the  nuts,  and  repeated  snatches 
of  poetry.  One  little  poem  of  Bryant,  the  "  Death  of  the 
Flowers,"  pleased  us  both  so  much  that  we  repeated  again 
and  again  together  this  verse,  as  we  would  have  lingered 
over  a  fresh  little  idyl  that  breathed  of  forests  and  mountain 
rills : — 

"And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  wintsr  home; 

11* 


1 2  6  COMPENSA  TION; 

When  the  soun  1   of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees  are 

still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more." 

Near  sunset  our  two  quiet  lovers  and  Octave  made 
their  appearance  on  the  bank  above  us.  Beau  and  Octave 
had  a  fine  romp,  while  He'lene  and  Kinnaird  talked  to  us  ; 
then  they  strayed  around  the  hill  out1  on  the  bank,  to 
Avatch  the  sunset  and  be  alone.  Beau  and  Octave  by  this 
time  were  weary,  and  the  dog  came  panting  to  rest  beside 
me,  while  Octave  threw  himself  on  the  ground  in  a  grace 
ful  position. 

"Well,  woodland  nymphs,"  he  said,  "what  have  you 
been  at  to-day?  Marie  Merle,  you  and  Mademoiselle 
Fauvette  are  playing  pretend  that  you  are  like  ladies  of 
old — Angelinas,  without  your  Rolands.  But  it  will  not 
do ;  you  are  too  artificial,  with  all  your  make-believe  love 
for  romance  and  nature  ;  your  tableaux  vivants  in  the  open 
air  are  always  Watteauish  Now  look  at  that  shawl! 
Mademoiselle  just  hitched  it  up  there  on  purpose,  because 
she  knew  it  would  look  picturesque." 

And  he  pointed  up,  with  a  malicious  laugh,  to  an  old 
red  French  cashmere  shawl  which  always  accompanied  us 
in  our  rambles,  to  be  used  as  a  bed  for  Beau  or  a  tempo 
rary  screen  from  sun  or  air,  just  as  the  need  required,  and 
which  Dora  had  hung  up  on  the  branches  of  the  tree  to 
keep  the  sun  off.  I  looked  up  and  saw  that  the  shawl  did 
really  produce  a  capital  effect,  and  that,  unconsciously,  the 
whole  grouping  of  our  arrangements  made  a  beautiful 
little  picture;  so  I  admitted  his  charge,  saying  that  we 
must  have  succeeded,  as  the  effect  had  struck  him  so 
forcibly. 

"  You  are  very  cunning,  Mademoiselle  Fauvette,"  he 
said,  with  saucy  playfulness. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  127 

"The  only  weapon  of  the  weak,  Mr.  Octave." 

He  yawned,  criticised  the  grouping  of  our  tableau,  then 
dragged  out  the  dinner-basket  (to  Beau's  excessive  de- 
. light),  in  order  to  discover  what  gourmands  we  had  been, 
and  made  a  great  rejoicing  over  the  wine-bottle. 

"  Empty,  by  Jove  !"  he  cried.  "  Pardon,  mademoiselle," 
he  added,  with  mock  courtesy. 

After  exhausting  his  raillery  on  that  point,  he  examined 
our  embroidery. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "has  worked  laboriously  over 
one  little  leaf;  it  would  take  a  microscope  to  see  the  stitches, 
and  there  is  no  beauty  in  it,  after  all  her  labor.  Marie  has 
galloped — or  'basted,''  I  believe  you  ladies  call  it — one 
whole  corner  of  her  handkerchief,  making  all  sorts  of  tipsy 
roses  and  dropsical  buds ;  and,  by  the  gods  !  here  are 
books  ;  and  music,  too,  as  I  live  !  '  Don  Giovanni,'  '  Festin 
de  Pierre,'  '  Memoires  de  Lorenzo  da  Ponte,'  '  Oubilischeff,' 
etc.  etc.  Upon  my  word,  ladies,  your  inquiries  to-day 
have  been  not  only  profound,  but  on  a  decidedly  fast  sub 
ject;  as  rapid,  mademoiselle,  as  your  American  trotting 
gait.  Rather  deep  water  for  you  women.  Ha,  ha !  funny, 
to  be  sure,  to  see  such  gentle  innocents  peeping  curiously 
into  what  you  cannot  understand  !  better  let  it  alone." 

Marie  Merle  grew  pettish  and  biting ;  he  rallied  on,  and 
the  two  quarreled,  half  in  play,  half  in  earnest. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  he  said,  after  remaining  silent 
awhile  over  Moliere's  "  Festin  de  Pierre,"  "  I  should  like 
to  know,"  he  repeated,  as  if  scarcely  knowing  what  he  was 
saying.  He  stopped,  and  continued  reading. 

"  Yery  well,  Octave,"  asked  Marie,  impatiently,  "  what 
is  it  you  Avould  like  to  know  ?" 

"Patience,  mocking  bird!"  he  answered  indifferently, 
Avithout  stopping  his  reading;  then,  after  a  short  silence, 
he  looked  up  quizzically,  and  said :  "  Now  just  tell  me  can- 


128  COMPENSA  TION; 

didly,  what  do  you  two  feminines,  you  babes  in  the  woods, 
make  out  of  that  sad  fellow,  Don  Giovanni  ?  Beg  pardon, 
mademoiselle,  I  am  sure  you  do  not  mind  my  nonsensical 
familiarity  in  calling  you,  as  well  as  my  old  friend  Marie, 
such  pretty  names." 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  answered;  but  I  felt  like  a  fool. 

Here  was  this  clever  man  of  the  world,  younger  than  I 
by  some  years,  but  very  much  older  in  all  sorts  of  Satan 
knowledge,  thrusting  himself  into  our  little  temple  of 
opinions,  and  fine  feminine  philosophy,  and  delicate  poetry 
of  feeling;  and  such  was  the  influence  of  his  sarcasm,  the 
atmosphere  of  sparkling,  biting  wit  which  hung  around  him, 
that  it  crushed  our  little  temple  into  nothingness.  Yes,  all 
the  gracious  pillars  and  delicate  adornments  faded  and 
crumbled  away  in  the  meanest  and  most  cowardly  manner. 
I  knew  that  all  our  opinions  about  Don  Juan  would  sound 
insipid  and  crude  to  his  ears,  and  instead  of  combating 
him  as  a  courageous,  bright-witted  woman  would  have 
done,  I  just  defended  myself  with  the  weapons  of  the 
weak. 

"  Come,  mademoiselle,"  he  continued,  mercilessly,  "you 
commence.  What  is  your  opinion  of  this  terrible  fellow, 
Don  Juan  ?" 

"  As  Shakspeare  says  of  the  devil,  Mr.  Octave,"  I  an 
swered,  "  Moliere  has  certainly  made  him  a  gentleman." 

I  gained  my  point,  and  disarmed  my  opponent  of  his 
sneering  raillery,  by  turning  his  attention  from  us. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  and  turning  the  leaves  of  the 
book  quickly,  he  read  aloud  the  last  scenes  in  act  third  of 
Moliere's  "  Festin  de  Pierre,"  with  great  grace  and  excel 
lent  expression  ;  those  scenes  so  filled  with  chivalric  cour 
age,  and  which  always  make  the  reader  of  the  play  feel 
sad  and  deeply  interested  in  the  worthless  hero.  Octave's 
voice  was  very  impressive,  and  when  he  reached  that  part 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  129 

in  scene  five,  where  the  elder  brother  of  Don  Cai-los  enters 
and  proves  him  to  be  Don  Juan,  and  the  detested  seducer 
of  their  sister  for  whom  they  are  searching,  he  threw  such 
a  full  expression  of  manly  courage  into  the  reply — "  Yes, 
I  am  Don  Juan  ;  and  the  advantage  of  number  on  my  own 
side  does  not  oblige  me  any  longer  to  hide  my  name" — 
that  it  made  our  eyes  kindle  and  cheeks  flush  as  if  the 
elegant  rascal  merited  praise  for  mere  animal  courage,  for 
getting  how  sadly  deficient  he  was  in  manly  honor  and 
truth. 

"By  heavens!"  cried  Octave,  after  finishing  the  passage 
and  throwing  down  the  book  so  violently  that  he  scared 
Beau  into  a  fierce  barking  fit,  "  you  are  right,  mademoi 
selle  ;  Don  Juan  was  a  gentleman  !" 

We  then  talked  of  the  different  renderings  of  this  old 
story  of  Don  Juan  ;  and  that  curious  but  interesting  book, 
"  Memoires  de  Lorenzo  da  Ponte,"  lying  beside  me,  led  to 
a  talk  on  the  life  of  this  eccentric  genius.  I  happened  to 
know  something  of  this  poet,  who  connected  eras  so  far 
apart  together — Metastasio,  Mozart,  and  almost  the  pres 
ent  day — and  interested  Octave  for  a  short  while  by  re 
counting  to  him  all  my  little  ana.  This  Da  Ponte  suc 
ceeded  Metastasio  as  court  poet  to  the  Emperor  of  Austria. 
It  was  in  1785  that  Mozart  first  met  him  at  Vienna;  and 
the  poet,  under  anything  but  pure  or  elevating  influences, 
wrote  for  the  great  maestro  the  libretto  of  Don  Giovanni, 
which  is  nearer  in  character  to  the  English  poet's  material 
conception  of  Don  Juan  than  the  Frenchman's.  Moliere's 
Don  Juan  is  a  reckless,  bad  fellow,  to  be  sure  ;  but  his 
occasional  misgivings  show  that  there  is  a  feeling  of  some 
thing  better  left  in  him :  "  One  must  think  of  repentance 
sometime,  Sganarellc."  But  Da  Ponte's  is  a  heai'tless,  un 
believing,  scoffing  demon,  for  whom  there  can  be  no  hope  ; 
he  never  thinks  or  talks  of  repentance. 


130  COMPENSATION; 

I  did  not  tell  all  this  to  Octave.  Oh,  no  !  If  I  had,  I 
should  have  provoked  and  lighted  up  all  his  fire  of  sarcasm 
and  ridicule  of  my  feminine  inexperience.  I  confined  my 
self  to  anecdotes  of  Da  Ponte  ;  accounts  of  how  his  rival, 
the  poet  Casti,  after  the  death  of  Joseph  II.,  succeeded  in 
having  Da  Ponte  exiled  from  Vienna,  in  1792;  but  that, 
although  he  ousted  him,  he  did  not  receive  the  laureateship  ; 
it  was  given  to  Bertalli.  Da  Ponte  emigrated  to  the  United 
States  in  1803,  and  lived  many  years  in  New  York,  leading 
a  true  poet's  life  of  penury  and  obscurity.  I  made  Octave 
laugh  heartily  over  a  story  I  had  heard  from  an  old  friend 
who  had  been  present  when  it  occurred. 

In  1825,  when  Garcia  visited  New  York  with  his  daugh 
ter  Malibran,  Da  Ponte  went  to  see  him.  He  introduced 
himself  by  taking  Garcia's  hand,  and  saying,  with  pardon 
able  pomposity,  "  I  am  Lorenzo  da  Ponte,  the  author  of 
the  libretto  of  Don  Giovanni,  and  the  friend  of  Mozart." 

Garcia  made  one  bound,  and,  embracing  the  old  poet, 
sang  out,  in  a  loud,  ringing  voice, — 

"  Fin  ch'han  dal  vino 

Calda  la  testa, 
Una  gran  festa 
Fa  preparar." 

Da  Ponte  was  so  affected  that  he  shed  real  tears  of  joy, 
and  of  sorrow  too,  it  might  be,  poor  old  man  !  Times  were 
sadly  changed  with  him  since  the  merry  days  when,  as  an 
emperor's  favorite,  a  petted  court  poet,  he  had  written  that 
famous  bacchanal,  the  very  words  of  which  seem  dripping 
with  the  rich  golden  grape-juice.  Octave  picked  up  the 
Memoires,  and,  dropping  the  book  in  one  of  the  deep 
pockets  of  his  paletot,  said, — 

"  By  your  leave,  mademoiselle,"  and  sprang  down  the 

bank,  singing 

"  Fin  ch'han  dal  vino" 


OB,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  131 

so  clear  and  loud,  that  long  after  we  had  lost  sight  of  his 
fine  form,  his  rich  voice  came  rising  up  on  our  ears,  brilliant 
as  the  beaded  bubbles  on  a  fresh-filled  champagne-goblet. 
The  crimson  sunset  colored  the  Yaudois  mountains  with 
a  golden  violet  hue,  and  the  cloud-like  mantle  around  Dent 
de  Jaman  was  i'ich  as  the  robes  of  a  king  in  state.  Marie 
had  her  arms  clasped  over  a  pendent  branch  of  the  old 
chestnut-tree,  and  was  silently  swaying  to  and  fro.  The 
red  folds  of  the  shawl  fell  gracefully  around  her,  its 
richly-colored  palms  giving  an  Oriental  effect  as  they  lay 
gathered  together  under  her  arms ;  the  atmosphere  seemed 
dissolving  around  her ;  and  as  I  lay  leaning  against  a  tree, 
with  half-closed  eyes,  looking  up  at  her  as  at  some  fine  pic 
ture,  the  golden  and  violet  particles  in  the  air  seemed  to 
mingle  in  the  tresses  of  her  rich  brown  hair  and  in  the 
warm  hue  of  her  cheeks  and  the  thin  red  line  of  her  trem 
bling  lips,  which  were  just  then  bearing  their  most  scornful 
expression.  Her  large  brown  eyes  were  looking  far,  far 
off — farther  even  than  those  brilliant  clouds;  her  soul  was 
growing,  almost  visibly,  and  surmounting  its  weaknesses. 
Had  I  been  a  younger  and  more  inexperienced  woman,  I 
should  have  sought  and  obtained  her  confidence ;  for  only 
the  modest  timidity  of  girlhood  kept  her  from  telling  me 
all  her  struggles  with  her  love.  And  had  I  possessed  faith 
in  that  love,  even  one  atom  of  hope  that  Octave  would 
make  her  happy  or  that  her  own  love  could  continue  for 
him,  I  might  have  encouraged  her  confidence,  little  as  I 
approve  of  confidences  of  such  a  sacred  feeling;  but  I 
had  no  faith  in  him  nor  in  the  love  on  either  side ;  I  saw 
Marie  growing  above  and  beyond  him  daily.  He  and  his 
like  might  sneer  at  such  spiritual  growth,  but  still  it  was 
none  the  less  true  ;  so  I  sat  in  silence,  apparently  admiring 
the  brilliant  cloud -changes,  but  in  truth  admiring  and 
studying  the  development  of  the  girl  into  the  woman — the 


132  COMPENSA  TION; 

struggles  of  the  young  poet  spirit  to  throw  off  all  unworthy 
bonds,  and  feeling  strong  faith  in  the  complete  victory  that 
would  be  gained  after  such  a  quiet  but  stern  combat  with 
Pandemian  love. 

Helene  and  her  lover  joined  us,  and  we  walked  quietly 
home  together,  Marie  carrying  little  tired  Beau  in  her 
arms.  Poor  child  !  her  heart  filled  with  sad  longings  for 
earthly  love,  to  which  her  spirit  said  sternly,  No  !  and  in 
sensibly  turning  to  the  lowly  little  dog  and  pouring  out  her 
love-yearnings  on  it.  I  could  not  help  repeating  aloud 
Mrs.  Browning's  sonnet  to  "  Flush  or  Faunus  ;"  and  Marie 
gathered  little  Beau  closer  in  her  arms,  as  she  murmured 
in  a  low  voice, — 

"  thanking  the  true  PAN, 
Who,  by  low  creatures,  leads  to  heights  of  love." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  133 


CHAPTER    XI. 

HOLIDAY   AT  INSTITUTION   EPERVEIL. 

IT  was  a  brilliant  autumn.  October  was  as  golden  as 
,  the  luscious  grapes  on  the  vines.  It  is  the  custom  in  most 
of  the  Swiss  institutions  of  education  to  allow  detachments 
of  students  to  make  pedestrian  excursions  in  the  mount 
ains  during  the  summer  and  autumn  months.  Topffer's 
delightful  "  Yoyages  en  Zigzag"  give  a  graphic  account  of 
these  promenades.  Several  excursions  had  been  made  by 
the  students  and  tutors  of  Institution  Eperveil  during  the 
vacation ;  but  the  autumn  had  opened  and  continued  so 
fine,  that  the  boys  grew  quite  restless  from  their  desire 
to  have  one  more  course  in  the  Alps  before  the  winter  set 
in.  Accordingly,  one  fine  sunny  Saturday  in  the  first  part 
of  October,  a  petition,  signed  by  all  the  students,  was  pre 
sented  to  Madame  Eperveil,  asking  for  a  few  days'  holiday. 
She  graciously  consented,  and  gave  them  all  the  following 
week,  only  stipulating  that  Monday  should  be  the  day  of 
preparation,  and  that  they  should  return  on  the  last  day 
of  the  week,  in  order  to  have  the  following  Sunday  as  a 
day  of  rest. 

Institution  Eperveil  became  a  scene  of  commotion.  The 
following  day  the  students  could  scarcely  endure  the  re 
straints  imposed  upon  them  by  Madame  Eperveil's  prohi 
bition  against  employing  the  Sunday  for  any  of  the  prepa 
rations.  Routes,  however,  were  discussed,  parties  made 

12 


134  COMPENSATION; 

up,  and  favorite  tutors  squabbled  over,  disturbing  effectu 
ally  the  Sabbath  peace  and  quiet.  To  Kinnaird  Graham's 
lot  had  fallen  a  pleasant  party  of  young  men,  about  ten  or 
a  dozen.  On  Sunday  he  was  talking  about  his  good  for 
tune  in  having  been  allowed  by  Madame  Eperveil  to  head 
this  little  band.  "Generally,"  he  said,  laughingly,  "I 
have  the  most  troublesome  boys  given  me,  and  the  anxiety 
I  feel  causes  me  much  more  fatigue  than  pleasure,  I  as 
sure  you.  There  is  but  one  element  wanting  to  make  this 
perfect,"  he  added,  with  a  playful  gallantry  rarely  indulged 
in  by  him.  , 

"  And  that  ?"  asked  Madame  Bouvreuil. 

"  Two  or  three  ladies,"  he  answered,  looking  at  Helene. 

"  Where  do  you  go  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  To  Chamouni ;  and  the  route  is  so  beautiful  and  easily 
accomplished  that  I  am  sure  you  would  enjoy  it." 

"  I  could  not  wish  anything  more  pleasant,"  I  cried ; 
"  and,  indeed,  I  think  you  are  very  kind  to  ask  me." 

"What  can  you  possibly  see  at  Chamouni,  Graham,  in 
three  or  four  days?"  said  Octave,  who  was  lounging  list 
lessly  over  my  balcony  railings,  and  had  been  talking  in 
a  low  voice  to  Marie  on  some  subject  which  did  not  seem 
very  agreeable  to  either  of  them.  She  had  been  dissatisfied 
about  something,  relative  to  Octave,  for  several  days  past, 
but  I  had  no  chance  of  talking  with  Tante  Cecile  for  more 
than  a  week,  or  I  should  have  learned  through  her  the 
cause  of  trouble;  therefore,  I  was  ignorant  of  it. 

Kinnaird  explained  his  route,  which  was  to  make  the 
pass  of  Tete  Noire  ;  spend  part  of  a  day,  and  sleep  at  Cha 
mouni;  while  at  Chamouui,  perform  any  one  of  the  num 
berless  exploits  the  ladies  wished  ;  then  return  by  Col  de 
Baline.  Octave  drew  a  long  breath. 

"By  Hercules!  but  you  have  energy,  Kinnaird!"  he 
cried,  "to  undertake  three  such  difficult  things:  the  care 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  135 

of  a  lot  of  hobbledehoys ;  two  ladies — for,  of  course,  Marie 
will  not  go — to  whom  you  give,  imprudently,  a  broad 
margin  of  whatever  they  please,  and  then  cram  a  week's 
work  into  three  or  four  days  !  I  do  not  envy  you  your 
post  of  honor." 

"  If  you  held  it,"  said  Marie,  petulantly,  "  you  would 
never  have  thought  of  inviting  us — certainly  not,  if  it  bad 
added  to  your  labors." 

"Most  assuredly  not,"  he  answered,  coolly,  yawning, 
and  speaking  in  a  fatigued,  bored  tone,  which  he  always 
employed  whenever  he  wished  to  be  particularly  disagree 
able.  It  was  evident  that  their  previous  conversation  had 
not  ended  satisfactorily,  for  he  was  in  as  ill  a  humor  as  he 
ever  allowed  himself  to  be.  "  I  do  not  like-to  see  ladies 
on  such  excursions,"  he  continued ;  "  they  are  in  the  way. 
Then,  another  powerful  reason,  it  makes  them  look  ugly  ; 
the  wind  tosses  their  hair,  and  the  sun  browns  their  skins; 
any  woman  who  expects  to  captivate  and  attract  a  man 
should  studiously  avoid  all  such  exposures.  I  am  sure  I 
should  grow  disgusted  with  Yenus  herself,  if  I  happened 
to  see  her  strapped  on  to  a  mule  tramping  over  one  of  these 
mountain  passes." 

"  How  absurdly  you  are  talking,  Octave !"  said  his 
mother. 

He  bowed,  with  mock  courtesy.  Kinnaird  and  Helene 
looked  and  acted  as  if  they  had  not  heard  a  word  of  Oc 
tave's  saucy  speech,  and  occupied  themselves  with  explain 
ing  to  me  the  route  and  manner  of  accomplishing  it,  and 
what  we  should  prepare  for  the  journey.  I  could  not  help 
stealing  a  glance  at  Marie,  who  stood  leaning  against  one 
of  the  pillars  of  my  balcony,  looking  earnestly  down  into 
the  misty  Rhone  valley,  as  if  seeking  there  for  counsel. 
Her  fine  Sappho  head  and  brow  looked  grand  in  the  moon 
light,  but  her  thin  lips  were  very  stern  and  scornful.  She 


136  COMPENSATION; 

made  no  reply  to  Octave ;  presently  she  turned  toward  us, 
and  asked,  "  When  do  you  start,  Kinnaird  ?" 

"  Tuesday  morning,  in  the  seven  o'clock  boat,  for  Ville- 
neuve." 

"  And  what  must  we  prepare  for  the  expedition  ?"  she 
said,  coming  to  the  window  in  which  we  were  seated  ;  and, 
taking-  a  little  footstool,  she  placed  it  at  my  feet,  and  sat 
down  upon  it ;  then,  clasping  her  hands  over  my  lap, 
leaned  her  head  on  them  like  a  poor,  tired,  discouraged 
child.  I  smoothed  her  silky,  brown  bands  of  hair,  and 
united  with  Helene  and  Kinnaird  in  telling  her  our  ar 
rangements. 

"Mademoiselle  Fauvette  should  be  proud  of  her  power," 
said  Octave,. sneeringly ;  "she  is  making  quite  a  coura 
geous  amazon  of  Marie." 

"But,  Octave,"  said  Helene,  in  a  mild  but  remonstrat 
ing  tone,  "  Marie  has  always  gone  with  us  in  our  mountain 
excursions  heretofore,  except  sometimes,  when  she  has 
generous^  stayed  at  home  to  please  you." 

"Not  much  generosity  in  anything  you  young  girls 
do ;  you  generally  seek  your  own  pleasure,  both  in  your 
attentions  to  and  neglect  of  men,"  he  answered,  mock 
ingly  ;  and  it  sounded  so  absurdly  pettish  that  we  could 
not  help  bursting  out  into  a  laugh,  and  I  injudiciously 
added  to  his  temper  by  crying  out, — 

"  Why,  Mr.  Octave,  you  are  positively  Byronic  to 
night  !" 

We  annoyed  him  excessively,  but  he  tried  to  control 
his  anger,  and  contented  himself  with  saying,  in  a  very 
polite  manner,  that  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  was  so  re 
fined  that  even  her  intended  sarcasms  were  elegant  com 
pliments,  and  then  left  the  balcony.  Soon  after  we  heard 
him  enter  his  own  room,  which  was  beneath  my  salon  ; 
after  awhile,  a  heavy  clang  of  the  front  door  informed 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  137 

us  that  he  had  left  the  house;  but  no  remark  was 
made  by  any  of  us,  either  as  to  his  silly  pettishness  or 
absence. 

The  next  day  was  occupied  in  preparations ;  and  we 
had  much  merriment  in  trying  on  our  mountain  costumes : 
short,  gray  wool  dresses,  knit  wool  Montreux  jackets, 
round  felt  hats,  stout  leather  boots  with  flexible  soles, 
and  thick  gloves  with  gauntlet  tops.  On  Tuesday  morn 
ing,  by  seven  o'clock,  we  were  down  at  the  V.  port  in 
time  to  take  the  "  Hiroudelle"  steamer.  We  were  a  merry 
party,  and  quite  large  and  noisy  enough  to  disconcert 
some  elegant  tourists  on  board  the  steamer.  At  Ville- 
neuve  we  left  the  boat,  and  took  the  railway  for  Bex,  that 
"  spot  for  landscape-painters,"  as  Topffer  says.  There 
Kinnaird  engaged  a  carriage  for  us,  and  he  accompanied 
us,  leaving  the  young  men  to  proceed  by  diligence,  agree 
ing  to  meet  them  at  the  Hotel  de  Cygne,  at  Martigny. 
The  road  from  Bex  to  Martigny  is  beautiful.  "We  took 
the  left  side  of  the  Rhone  until  we  reached  the  Bridge  of 
St.  Maurice,  which  is  a  bold  arch,  spanning  the  rapid 
mountain  river,  resting  one  end  on  the  base  of  Dent  de 
Morcles,  and  the  other  on  Dents  du  Midi,  which  mount 
ains  advance  their  bases  so  far  forward  as  to  crowd  the 
river  into  a  narrow  space  of  about  seventy  feet. 

This  Bridge  of  St.  Maurice  took  us  from  Canton  Yaud 
into  Canton  Yalais.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Rhone  we 
passed  the  beautiful  little  waterfall  of  the  Bas  Valais; 
its  leap  down  the  mountain's  side  is  broken  by  an  inter 
vening  bit  of  rock,  which  causes  the  water  to  dash,  as  it 
were,  into  atoms,  forming  a  spray  more  brilliant  than  gems, 
as  the  rays  of  the  mid-day  sun  fell  on  it.  We  reached 
Martigny  before  the  young  gentlemen,  and  had  a  savoiy 
dinner  ordered  for  them  by  the  time  they  arrived.  During 
our  noisy,  merry  dinner,  Kinnaird  engaged  mules  and 

12* 


138  COMPENSATION; 

guides  for  the  journey.  The  mounting  of  mules,  and  the 
getting  under  way  of  our  cavalcade,  created  as  great  a 
sensation  among  the  people  as  happiness  to  us,  and  we 
trotted  off  to  the  merry  measure  of  the  mule-bells,  laughs, 
songs,  and  huzzas  of  the  excited  students. 

The  ascent  of  Tele1  Noire  is  very  bold  and  grand.  At 
the  commencement  of  the  ascent  we  had  a  beautiful  view 
of  the  Rhone  valley  and  the  course  of  the  Rhone  through 
it,  from  Col  de  Forclaz.  The  path  after  that  gave  fine 
views  of  the  valley  of  the  Triente,  sometimes  skirting 
precipices,  sometimes  running  through  grazing  grounds. 
We  reached  the  inn  near  the  summit  about  sunset;  this 
was  our  resting-place  for  the  night.  We  found  it  to  be  a 
rude  but  a  comfortable  and  clean  place.  While  supper 
was  preparing,  and  Kinnaird  and  Helene  were  busied  in 
examining  into  the  accommodations  of  the  house  and 
making  arrangements  for  the  night,  Marte  and  I  sauntered 
out  on  the  road.  Behind  the  inn  is  a  deep  gorge,  through 
which  the  Eau  Noire  rushes;  mountains  rise  upon  the  op 
posite  side,  covered  with  pasturages,  chalets,  and  patches 
of  tilled  ground  ;  the  cattle  grazing,  their  bells  ringing, 
and  the  noise  of  rushing  waters,  gave  Marie  a  host  of 
ideas  for  mountain  idyls.  From  a  steep  height  came  tum 
bling  down  a  mountain  rapid,  called  by  the  peasants  cor 
don,  or  ruban  blanc  ;  it  looked  like  a  white  ribbon  streamer, 
woven  with  a  silver  weft,  flung  to  and  fro  from  one  steep 
to  another,  and  so  far  distant  that  we  could  not  see  its 
liquid  flow  or  spray,  only  its  dazzling  light  as  it  caught 
some  golden  violet  rays  from  the  setting  sun,  or  a  soft, 
silver  beam  from  the  nearly  full  moon.  Beyond  the  inn 
was  the  dark  forest  of  Triente  and  the  brow  of  Tete 
Noire.  While  we  were  admiring  these  ravishing  sights 
and  sounds,  Kinuaird  came,  with  the  troop  of  students,  to 
summon  us  to  supper ;  and,  romantic  and  ethereal  as  we 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  139 

had  felt  while  enjoying  the  enchanting  out-door  view,  we 
did  full  justice  to  the  landlady's  good  supper.  Golden 
honey  and  delicious  little  biscuit,  fragrant  coffee,  made 
yellow-white  by  the  boiling,  creamy  milk,  and  piles  of  the 
little  Alpine  strawberries, — surely  all  these  were  tempting 
enough  to  have  seduced  an  anchorite  as  well  as  romantic 
women.  We  grew  gloriously  merry  over  the  feast,  and 
quite  forgot  the  grand  scene  of  mountain,  torrent,  and 
moonlight,  outside  the  house. 

After  supper,  all  the  party  were  too  fatigued  to  enjoy 
the  out-door  beauties,  and  retired  almost  instantly,  in  order 
to  be  fresh  for  the  early  morning  journey.  When  they 
were  all  quiet  in  their  rooms,  and  Helene  had  fallen  off' 
into  a  calm,  sweet  sleep,  Marie  and  I  stole  down  the 
staircase  and  wandered  up  and  down  the  road  until  after 
midnight,  talking  of  everything  but — Octave.  Poor  Marie ! 
To  some  women  love  is  like  silly  Eve's  apple  of  knowl 
edge:  once  tasted,  all  trust  and  faith  are  gone  forever. 
The  night  was  glorious  "  with  sights  and  sounds  di 
vine  ;"  and  the  wild  mountain  melody,  caused  by  the 
rushing  noise  of  the  Triente  forcing  its  way  into  the 
Eau  Noire,  gave  to  the  scene  a  sublimity  almost  super 
natural. 

The  next  morning  by  five  o'clock  we  had  made  a  good 
breakfast,  and  were  mounting  our  mules.  We  entered 
the  dark  forests  of  Triente  and  those  which  cover  the 
mountain's  brow  and  give  it  its  name,  "  Tete  Noire ;"  as 
we  left  them,  the  valley  of  the  Triente  opened  before  us 
in  the  midst  of  precipices  and  steep  mountains.  Formerly 
the  passage  of  Tete  Noire  was  very  dangerous  ;  now  the 
road  winds  skillfully  around  the  mountain's  side,  avoiding 
the  old  zigzag  and  dangerous  mattvais  pas,  as  the  guides 
and  peasants  call  such  paths.  A  rock  is  tunneled  in  one 
place,  and  Marie  and  I  arrested  our  mules  at  the  entrance, 


140  COMPENSATION; 

to  watch  the  part  of  our  band  emerging  from  this  superb 
road  suspended  in  mid-air.  Then  came  a  succession  of 
gorges  and  mountain  torrents,  and  at  last  we  arrived  at 
Argcntiere,  where  we  saw  our  first  glacier,  the  Glacier 
d'Argentiere,  which  comes  streaming  its  icy  mass  down 
into  the  vale  between  Aiguilles  d'Argentiere  and  De  la 
Tour.  We  arrived  in  Chamouni  at  mid-day.  We  gazed 
around  this  wild,  desolate-looking  village  with  dissatisfac 
tion ;  we  could  not  endure  the  grand,  incongruous  hotels 
and  crowds  of  stylish  dressy  travelers,  which  give  it  a 
watering-place  look,  quite  at  variance  with  the  landscape, 
like  a  vulgar  discord  caused  by  an  ignorant  hand  striking 
the  keys  or  strings  of  an  instrument  in  the  midst  of  wild, 
weird  music ;  nor  could  we  any  better  endure  the  clouds 
and  fog  that  veiled  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc. 

While  we  dined,  we  discussed  the  afternoon  plans; 
and,  after  taking  the  votes,  the  gentlemen  gallantly  allow 
ing  each  one  of  our  votes  to  count  for  two  of  theirs,  the 
decision  was  found  to  be  for  Mer  de  Glace.  We  mounted 
our  mules,  crossed  the  Arve,  and  the  meadows  in  this 
wild  valley,  to  the  foot  of  the  Montanvert,  then  ascended 
the  steep,  picturesque  road.  Sometimes  we  crossed  wild, 
desolate-looking  paths  that  seemed  as  if  some  avenging 
angel  of  destruction  had  swept  his  blighting  wing  over 
them ;  they  were  the  paths  of  winter  avalanches,  and 
were  more  dreary-looking  than  the  black  lines  of  a  lava 
stream.  Over  the  lava  the  fern  and  grass  will  grow ; 
but  where  once  the  ice  has  touched,  all  vegetation  ceases ; 
even  if  it  recedes  or  sways  aside,  and  takes  another  course, 
the  spot  on  which  it  but  rested  for  a  period  is  blasted  for 
ever.  And  it  seems  as  if  the  Italian  Dante  must  have 
known  this,  although  he  never  saw  these  fearful  ice  re 
gions  ;  for  the  throne  of  his  Inferno  is  the  region  of  eter 
nal  ice.  The  pines  were  hung  with  beautiful,  long,  hairy 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  141 

moss,  that  streamed,  like  the  torn  locks  of  ravished  vir 
gins,  in  the  wind. 

When  we  reached  the  summit,  we  dismounted,  and  hur 
ried  down  to  the  shore  of  Mer  de  Glace.  The  fog  hung 
heavily,  covering  all  the  numberless  pinnacles  of  the  wil 
derness  of  mountains  that  surround  the  vale  which  forms 
the  couch  for  this  marvelous  ice  sea.  It  is  over  seven 
thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  above  and 
around  it  rise  up  those  precipitous  summits  some  of  which 
are  so  steep  that  the  snow  cannot  even  cling  to  or  rest  on 
their  sides.  The  sea  is  two  miles  wide,  and  it  occupied 
nearly  two  hours  in  crossing  it.  We  had  excellent  guides; 
mine  was  a  son  of  the  Payod  immortalized  by  Dumas  in 
his  clever,  sparkling  Impressions  du  Voyage  en  Suisse, 
and  cousin  to  Topffer's  Jean  Payod.  He,  my  guide — Jean 
Marie  Payod — had  just  returned  from  London,  where  he 
had  been  employed  by  Albert  Smith  in  his  exhibition  of 
Mont  Blanc.  When  he  heard  from  Marie  that  I  was  an 
American,  his  admiration  was  without  bounds,  and  he  was 
prodigal  of  care  and  attention. 

"  Our  peasants  are  very  enthusiastic  about  America, 
Fanny,"  said  Helene,  in  English  ;  "they  look  upon  it  as  a 
land  of  promise,  a  mother  republic." 

"  Yes,"  said  Kinnaird,  whose  English  prejudices  prompt 
ed  him  to  let  off  a  little  raillery  against  Helene  and  me ; 
" '  our  peasants'  believe  firmly  that  every  man,  so  soon  as  he 
lands  in  the  States,  owns  a  large  farm  ;  and  '  Government,' 
that  wealthy  individual,  has  immense  tracts  of  luxuriant 
fields,  all  fenced  in,  ready  to  give  gratis,  with  polite  pleas 
ure,  to  any  Swiss  who  can  scrape  enough  francs  together 
to  pay  his  passage  across  the  Atlantic." 

Helene  and  Marie  attacked  him  womanfully  in  defence 
of  their  peasant  brethren,  and  I  joined  with  him  against 
them  for  awhile.  But  the  wonders  of  the  ice  sea  soon 
made  us  forget  everything  else. 


142  COMPELS  A  TION, 

Mario  and  I  let  Kinnaird  and  He'lene  pass  on  with  the 
leaping,  bounding  boys,  and  we  stood  on  the  centre  of  the 
sea  alone ;  our  guides,  seeing  we  wished  to  talk  together, 
drew  off  at  a  little  distance.  The  surface  near  the  shores 
is  covered  with  dust  and  stones,  and  does  not  give  a  satis 
factory  impression  of  the  color  and  solidity  of  the  ice.  The 
waves,  near  the  centre  of  the  sea,  rise  at  least  three  feet 
above  the  surface ;  long  crevasses  cleave  some  of  these 
huge  frozen  waves  asunder,  and  one  can  look  down  into 
them  an  unfathomable  depth.  We  leaned  over  a  crevasse 
and  gazed  down,  admiring  the  clear  amethystine  color 
of  the  cloven  ice,  which  was  more  intensely  blue  than  the 
heavens  that  seemed  to  draw  far  away  from  us  above. 

"  Not  a  '  dissolved  amethyst,'  "  said  Marie,  "  but  a  frozen 
one,  harder  than  the  gem,  stone  as  it  is." 
v  Then  we  talked  of  fearful  dreams  we  had  suffered  during 
seasons  of  intense  anxiety,  when  spectres,  with  eyes  of 
just  such  an  icy  blue,  had  haunted  us.  The  fog  rolled  and 
surged,  sometimes  showing  the  snowy  and  icy  tops  of  the 
Aiguilles  that  surrounded  us ;  the  sun,  striving  to  pierce 
through  the  driving  clouds,  gave  them  the  appearance  of 
smoke  and  smouldering  fire — it  seemed  like  a  world  being 
destroyed  by  flame  and  ice.  This  wondrous  sea  is  calm 
and  quiet;  its  cresting  waves,  its  whirlpools,  and  its  rage, 
are  still  as  the  death-sleep  ;  it  is  like  an  ocean  in  high  fury, 
suddenly  held  still  by  an  icy  hand  of  power.  The  waves 
rise  as  if  ready  to  ingulf  us,  the  whirlpools  threaten  to  drag 
us  under,  the  crevasse-trough  yawns — but  all  is  transfixed, 
silent,  and  immovable.  And  yet  it  is  said  that  a  silent 
change  is  always  going  on  in  this  quiet  sea;  that  these 
waves,  so  firm  and  still,  insensibly  decrease  and  new  ones 
arise,  and  that  the  impurities  and  stones  on  its  surface,  the 
moraines  of  the  glacier,  as  they  are  called,  are  ejected  from 
its  mysterious,  unknown  depths.  This  thought  coming 


OR,  'ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  143 

over  me  as  I  stood  there — far  away  from  our  mortal  land, 
leaning  beside  one  of  the  apparently  immovable  waves, 
one  arm  thrown  across  its  "  icy  mane" — caused  in  me  an 
emotion  like  what  Shelley  calls  "  a  sentiment  of  ecstatic 
wonder  not  unallied  to  madness."  And  yet  there  was  no 
fear  mingled  with  the  thought. 

"  How  can  one  feel  fear  in  the  presence  of  mere  physical 
danger?"  said  Marie,  in  a  low  voice.  "It  is  but  death 
that  comes  at  last,  and  death  of  this  poor  body  has  no 
terrors." 

"  Human  tyranny,  human  injustice,  frightens  me,"  I 
replied.  "I  feel  helpless  to  contend  against  it,  and  the 
thought  of  unjust  oppression  crushes  down  my  heart. 
There  are  some  human  influences,  some  inflections  of  the 
human  voice,  that  in  time  would,  I  am  sure,  make  a  hope 
less  idiot  of  me ;  but  never  God's  nature,  nor  the  voices 
and  sounds  of  God's  great  world-creation  of  mountain  and 
ocean." 

"  They  elevate  me,"  said  Marie,  her  whole  face  glowing 
with  the  emotion  which  caused  her  beautiful,  soft-toned 
voice  to  vibrate  and  thrill  through  me  like  the  cadence  of 
the  nightingale.  "  I  feel  light  and  soaring,  as  if  I  were 
one  of  the  little  loving  angels  whose  heads  make  up  the 
heavenly  background  in  some  of  the  old  pictures.  Oh, 
you  are  right !  one  cannot  feel  fear  of  God,  even  though 
one  may  sometimes  tremble  in  the  presence  of  his  poor 
creature  man." 

Shelley's  fine  lines  rose  to  my  lips : — 

"Is  this  the  scene 

Where  the  old  earthquake-demon  taught  her  young 
Ruin  ?    Were  these  their  toys  ?     Or  did  a  sea 
Of  fire  envelop  once  this  silent  snow? 
None  can  reply' — all  seem  eternal  now. 
The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 


144  COMPENSA  TION; 

Which  teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  so  mild, 
So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be, 
But  for  such  faith,  with  nature  reconciled. 
Thou  hast  a  voice,  great  mountain,  to  repeal 
Large  codes  of  fraud  and  woe  :  not  understood 
By  all,  but  which  the  wise,  and  great,  and  good 
Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel." 

"  I  feel  no  doubt,  but  more  and  more  reliance  on  God," 
said  Marie,  with  sweet,  solemn  reverence. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  more  certain  of  a  hereafter,  more  dis 
posed  to  be  patient  and  forbearing  under  life's  bitter  disap 
pointments  and  contradictions,  and  humanity's  injustice 
and  shortcomings.  This  life  and  its  trials  seem  here, 
under  such  influences,  so  petty — the  future  and  its  devel 
opments  so  infinite." 

We  stepped  forward  and  joined  our  guides,  and  con 
tinued  the  passage  over  the  sea  in  silence.  A  grand,  sol 
emn  "  word"  we  learned  there  on  the  centre  of  that  frozen 
ocean,  as  we  stood  "  looking  up  from  nature  to  nature's 
God." 

The  end  of  the  passage  is  very  difficult.  There  is  a  part 
called  the  Mauvais  Pas,  which  is  quite  dangerous  ;  it  is  a 
path  cat  in  the  face  of  a  rock,  nearly  perpendicular,  on  the 
east  side  of  the  glacier;  a^  precipice  lined  with  ice  and 
sharp-pointed  rock  lies  beneath ;  the  path  is  narrow  and 
slippery  from  the  constant  drip  of  the  snow.  This  path  is 
but  just  barely  wide  enough  for  one  person,  and  for  sup 
port  there  is  only  a  rope  on  one  side,  fastened  to  the  rock 
by  iron  rings.  The  guides  advanced  in  front  of  us,  placed 
their  sure  and  steady  feet  in  the  places  where  we  were  to 
tread  after  them,  and  grasped  us  at  the  same  time  firmly 
by  the  wrists.  After  we  had  passed  over,  we  stood  for  a 
few  moments  to  take  breath,  and  looked  at  each  other  and 
the  perilous  passage  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  145 

"  Persons  subject  to  dizziness  should  not  attempt  this 
passage,"  cried  Marie,  with  a  gasp. 

"  Certainly  not,  mademoiselle  !"  replied  Payod,  earn 
estly.  "Day  before  yesterday,  Jean  and  I  had  an  Eng 
lish  gentleman  and  his  lacty  to  take  across.  When  she 
reached  this  place,  she  leaned  over  to  look  into  the  preci 
pice,  and  was  seized  with  such  a  vertigo  that  we  were 
forced  to  bind  her  eyes  and  carry  her  across." 

"  But  that  was  more  dangerous  than  if  you  had  returned 
to  Montanvert,"  said  Marie. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !"  cried  Payod,  shrugging  his  shoulders ; 
"  but  madame  determined  to  finish  the  journey.  Mesde- 
moiselles  are  strongei'-headed  than  most  ladies,  however  !" 

"In  more  senses  than  one,  probably,"  said  Kinnaird,  in 
English,  as  he  ran  down  the  bank  of  Le  Chapeau  to  meet 
us.  "How  do  you  feel  ?" 

"  Tired  enough.     Where  is  Helene  ?" 

"Resting  at  Le  Chapeau." 

And  I  was  glad  enough  to  reach  there  to  rest  also,  for  I 
felt  very  bruised  and  weary.  Just  before  reaching  the 
Mauvais  Pas  I  had  slipped  on  a  base  of  one  of  the  frozen 
waves,  and  my  foot  plunged  deep  into  one  ofJhe  cold  blue 
crevasses,  touching  a  fluid  as  icy  cold  as  the  chill  damps 
of  death.  My  guide's  strong  arm  dragged  me  up,  and  a 
muttered  ejaculation  showed  his  terror  ;  a  wet  ankle  and 
cut  boot,  however,  was  all  the  harm  done  beyond  the  fright. 

We  had  to  wait  at  Le  Chapeau  a  little  while  for  the 
mules,  which  had  gone  around  from  Montanvert  to  meet 
us  in  the  ravine  beneath.  We  sat  and  looked  down  at  the 
curious  pinnacles  and  obelisks  of  ice  into  which  the  glacier 
has  broken  in  its  descent  into  the  valley.  While  looking, 
we  saw  the  mules  below,  and  we  descended  the  muddy 
path  leading  from  this  hill,  which  is  called  Le  Chapeau,  to 
its  foot,  where  the  mules  were  waiting  for  us.  We  found 

13 


146  '    COMPENSATION; 

the  descent  very  rapid  and  steep,  and,  as  it  was  nightfall, 
quite  difficult.  Our  journey  to  Chamouni,  after  we  entered 
the  vale,  was  one  of  quiet,  peaceful  beauty.  The  fog  floated 
off,  the  bright  October  moon  rode  out  majestically  into  the 
heavens,  greeting  with  a  flood  of  silvery  light  the  soft, 
white-bonneted  head  of  the  "Monarch  of  Mountains." 
The  sky  was  pure  and  blue ;  and  to  the  left  of  one  of  the 
Aiguilles,  which  form  a  sort  of  body-guard  to  his  mountain 
majesty,  shone  a  little  crimson  point  in  the  heavens — a 
tiny,  flaming  star. 

"Look,  mademoiselle,"  said  Payod,  lifting  his  cap  rever 
entially:  "  it  is  the  star  of  the  shepherds." 

The  scene  was  calm  and  peaceful ;  and  I,  bruised  and 
tired,  leaned  with  my  two  arms  over  the  neck  of  the  pa 
tient  mule,  which  Payod  led  along  and  carefully  held  me 
on  at  the  same  time.  I  gazed  up  at  the  high  heavens,  the 
snowy  mountains,  the  flaming  star-point,  and  the  round, 
full  autumn  moon,  and  drank  in  rest  for  both  body  and 
soul.  "  Tired  and  weary  way-worn  travelers  "  were  we, 
when  we  dismounted  from  our  mules  at  the  Hotel  de  Lon- 
dres. 

"  What  glorious  visions  you  two  girls  should  have,  in 
the  midst  of  all  these  strange  weird  noises  !"  said  He'lene, 
as  she  stood  by  the  window  of  our  bedroom,  sipping  her 
tea,  and  looking  out  at  the  glaciers  and  rushing  torrents. 
Her  leste  fine  form  showed  less  fatigue  than  ours. 

We  smiled  grimly ;  we  were  too  tired  to  be  sublime. 
Some  time  after  midnight  I  was  awakened  by  a  loud, 
booming  noise,  which  made  me  sit  straight  up  in  bed. 

"  Marie,"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  stretched  out  my 
hand  to  awaken  her.  "  Marie,  there  goes  Mer  de  Glace !" 

We  both  sprang  lightly  out  on  the  floor,  and,  wrapping 
blanket-shawls  around  us,  ran,  with  a  smothered  laugh,  to 
the  window  as  quietly  as  possible,  in  order  not  to  disturb 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  147 

Helene,  who   was  enjoying  one   of  her   usual  good-girl 
sleeps,  that 

"Sound  child-sleeping, 
Which  the  thunder  cannot  break." 

We  looked  out  on  the  Glacier  du  Bois,  which  is  the  ter 
mination  of  the  Mer  de  Glace  ;  there  it  lay,  spread  out  white 
and  bleak-looking  in  the  fading  moonlight ;  and  the  source 
of  the  Arve  came  pouring  down  as  steadily  and  beautifully 
as  when  we  bade  it  good-night  at  ten  o'clock.  But  how 
glorious  was  the  scene,  both  for  sight  and  hearing  !  There 
was  the  sound  of  rushing  torrent  and  dashing  waterfall, 
and  the  sight  of  high  mountains  towering  around.  "  Na 
ture  was  the  poet,  whose  harmony  held  our  spirits  more 
breathless  than  that  of  the  divinest  earthly  one." 

We  sat  for  some  time,  in  silence,  by  the  window.  At 
last  I  found  myself  nodding,  with  sleepy  familiarity,  to  the 
opposite  glacier,  and  I  crept  off  shivering  to  bed,  saying, 
as  I  wrapped  my  blanket-shawl  more  comfortably  around 
me  and  nestled  cosily  under  the  down  cover,  "  No  grand 
convulsion  of  nature  is  going  to  commemorate  our  visit, 
Marie  Merle,  I  will  vouch  for  it;  so  come  to  sleep,  my 
friend." 

But  Marie  was  horribly  sure  we  should  hear  in  the  morn 
ing  some  terrible  account  of  an  avalanche,  and  a  village  or 
two  destroyed.  What  Neros  travelers  become  !  But  no 
such  agreeable  horror  was  granted  to  us  for  our  breakfast. 
The  noise  which  had  awakened  us  was  only  the  booming 
of  a  little  cannon,  announcing  the  return  of  a  company  of 
gentlemen  who  had  ascended  Mont  Blanc  a  day  or  two 
before. 

After  breakfast,  commenced  the  journey  of  the  day.  At 
Argentiere  we  began  the  ascent  of  the  Col  de  Balme.  The 
path  up  the  mountain  is  a  regular  zigzag,  and  recalled 
Topffer's  piquant  and  graphic  descriptions  to  us.  I  could 


148  COMPENSA  TION; 

not  help  expecting  to  meet  at  every  turn  the  good  fat 
woman  whose  child  had  the  hooping-cough,  or  the  two 
goitre  cretins,  guiding  a  cow,  which — having  the  most 
sense  of  the  three — was  the  veritable  guide. 

Mont  Blanc,  without  a  cloud,  shone  resplendent  in  the 
midst  of  his  superb  court  of  Aiguilles,  Dents,  and  Cols. 
His  soft,  round,  white  head  looked  like  a  gracious  monarch. 
The  other  mountains  shot  up,  cleaving  the  heavens  with 
their  sharp,  cutting,  icy-peaked  crowns ;  but  the  monarch 
of  them  all  could  dispense  with  a  peak,  and  his  soft  snows 
blended  with  the  melting  blue  of  the  sky  like  a  wavy, 
changing  cloud.  From  summit  to  base  he  stood  before  us ; 
and  then  there  was  the  beautiful  wild  vale  beneath,  with 
the  roaring  Arve  coursing  through  it,  bordered  with  steep 
mountains,  and  the  still,  cold,  white,  creeping  glaciers, 
which  unfolded  themselves  with  desolate  grandeur  down 
into  its  poor  bosom. 

As  we  neared  the  summit  we  passed  large  herds  of  cattle 
on  the  different  mountain  pastures.  Near  Chalet  de  Balme 
we  saw  over  two  hundred  cows,  some  ruminating,  some 
drinking  peacefully  at  the  numberless  mountain  torrents 
that  streamed  over  our  road.  As  we  passed  across  one  of 
the  rude  bridges  spanning  a  little  torrent,  Marie  drew  her 
mule  near  mine,  and  said, — 

"  When  the  storms  rage,  is  there  not  here  the  finest 
music?  And  the  currents  of  water  which  rush  into  the 
ravines,  and  go  leaping  out  over  one  tree-root  after  another, 
bearing  along  pebbles  and  leaving  their  foam  on  the  stems 
vof  the  fern,  do  they  not  also  sing  wild  songs,  which  bring 
us  pretty  dreams  when  we  sleep  in  isles  that  in  one  single 
night  they  can  form  around  us  ?"* 

It  was  some  fete  day,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  different 

*  Maitres  Sonneurs. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  149 

villages  were  out  in  their  pretty  holiday  costumes,  every 
group  making  a  picture  d  la  Girardet.  The  air  was  filled 
with  pastoral  sounds  :  the  cow-bells,  the  horns  of  the  herds 
men,  the  village  chapel  bells,  and  the  roar  of  torrents  and 
little  waterfalls.  We  dined  on  the  summit  of  the  Col ;  after 
dinner  we  dispersed  in  various  directions,  in  order  to  enjoy 
for  an  hour  or  so,  and  in  perfect  freedom,  the  glorious  view 
from  this  summit.  Tired  with  rambling,  Marie  and  I  sat 
down  on  some  broad  stones,  and  gazed  down  into  the  vale 
of  Cbamouni  entirely  through  its  length  and  breadth,  from 
Col  de  Rosa  to  Col  de  Balme. 

"We  found  the  descent  of  Col  de  Balme  fatiguing,  but 
filled  with  savage  beauty.  After  awhile  we  struck  into  the 
route  over  the  Forclaz,  which  we  had  made  in  ascending 
the  Tete  Noire,  and  again  enjoyed  the  beautiful  view  of  the 
Rhone  valley.  At  Martigny  we  discharged  the  mules  and 
guides,  and  pushed  on  to  Bex,  in  carriages,  in  order  to  sleep 
there  that  night,  and  arrived  in  Peilz  the  following  day, 
with  fatigued  bodies,  but  filled  with  impressions  of  beauty 
which  remained  unfading  in  our  memories  for  years. 


13* 


150  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER    XII. 

A   DAY   AT  BLONAY. 

AFTER  our  return  from  Chamouni  we  found  Octave  ab 
sent.  He  had  left  for  a  journey,  one  scarcely  knew  whither, 
but  he  expected  to  be  at  Vienna  during  the  winter  to  meet 
Lord  S.,  a  young  English  nobleman,  and  remain  with  him 
as  a  sort  of  tutor  or  companion.  This  Lord  S.  was  a 
nephew,  by  marriage,  of  a  grand,  wealthy  friend  of  Madame 
Eperveil,  a  Mr.  Landsnecht,  an  Englishman,  who  had  made 
a  fabulous  fortune  in  trade,  and,  by  means  of  this  fortune, 
had  been  able  to  marry  the  penniless  aunt  of  this  young 
lordling.  In  course  of  time  the  merchant  became,  to  his 
great  satisfaction,  guardian  to  his  wife's  nephew.  A  month 
or  so  before,  he  had  applied  to  Madame  Eperveil  to  pro 
vide  him  with  a  traveling  companion  or  tutor  to  this  young 
gentleman,  who  had  just  left  the  university,  and  wished  to 
travel  on  the  continent;  and  Madame  Eperveil  had  recom 
mended  Octave. 

"  I  am  glad  he  is  gone,"  said  Tante  Cecile  to  me,  one 
sweet  twilight,  as  we  were  lingering  in  Michel's  garden, 
and  admiring  together  his  fine  fall  pears  and  plums. 
"  But  his  caprices  do  not  worry  and  distress  Marie  as 
they  used  to.  Formerly  she  fretted  when,  after  a  quarrel, 
be  would  leave  in  this  cavalier  style.  I  think,  however, 
she  is  outgrowing  her  love  for  him,  for  she  scarcely  noticed 
his  absence  ;  and  the  first  morning  after  your  return  from 
Chamouni,  she  went  to  work  as  hard  as  ever  at  her  music. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  151 

This  time  last  year  she  would  have  looked  gloomy  for  a 
week,  and  not  opened  the  piano." 

Madame  Michel,  just  at  this  moment,  joined  us.  She 
was  a  tall,  slender,  old-maidish-looking  woman,  who  held 
herself  absurdly  erect ;  the  expression  of  her  countenance 
was  very  droll ;  it  was  the  personification  of  primness ; 
she  had  little,  sparkling,  black  eyes,  a  nice  brown  com 
plexion,  black  hair  streaked  with  gray,  and  she  wore  a 
wrhite  cap  with  fluted  border,  the  universal  head-dress  of 
the  Yaudois  peasant  woman.  She  was  a  character,  this 
same  Madame  Michel,  in  her  humble  way,  and  afforded, 
infinite  amusement  to  us;  but  we  respected  her,  for  she 
was  an  excellent  woman,  and  our  laughs  against  her  were 
not  malicious.  She  had  been  an  old  maid,  the  daughter 
of  the  old  gardener  of  the  chateau,  and,  after  his  death, 
had  married  her  father's  assistant,  Michel,  a  widower, 
with  one  child ;  and  a  pretty,  good  girl  was  this  daughter, 
Elise  Michel.  Madame  Michel  had  never  expected  to 
marry.  I  do  not  suppose  it  had  ever  entered  into  her 
head  to  take  such  a  step;  not  that  she  was  ugly  or  dis 
agreeable,  but  she  had  always  been  a  stiff,  prim,  old- 
maidish  person  from  her  earliest  youth,  and  had  "  never 
fancied  the  lads,"  as  she  said.  After  her  father's  death, 
Michel  had  wisely  concluded  she  would  just  suit  him, 
especially  as  she  held  a  sort  of  right  in  the  garden,  and  if 
he  did  not  marry  her  he  would  have  to  pay  her  a  small 
sum  annually.  He  was  a  shrewd,  calculating  fellow; 
and,  without  being  cruel  or  positively  and  openly  a  rascal, 
was  more  cold  and  selfish  than  many  who  were  less 
trusted  in.  He  was  industrious,  however,  and  generally 
temperate  ;  although  at  certain  seasons  he  would  take  a 
frolic,  as  will,  unfortunately,  very  many  of  the  Yaudois 
peasants.  They  are  a  liberty-loving,  wine-drinking  set, 
these  Yaudois  peasants;  and  sometimes  Michel  would 


152  COMPENSATION; 

have  a  fresh  attack  of  peasant  patriotism,  which  he  would 
show  by  a  three  or  four  days'  visit  to  the  neighboring 
cabaret,  where  he  let  it  off  by  playing  disque,  drinking 
the  new  heady  wine  of  the  Canton,  and  howling,  in  bar 
barous,  inharmonious  shrieks,  patriotic  songs  out  of  the 
Zofingue:  "  Au  bord  du  Lac,'1'1  "  Sur  nos  champs,"  and, 
above  all,  "  Remplissons  nos  verres;"  which  last  song 
always  raised  him  and  his  companions  to  a  seventh 
heaven  of  Swiss  republican  bliss.  But  his  wife  ignored 
all  this,  and  talked  incessantly  of  the  great  prize  she  had 
drawn  in  the  matrimonial  lottery. 

"  If  you  could  only  know  how  good  he  is,  Miss  Fanny! 
It  is  inexpressible!  He  is  perfection !  He  is  an  angel !" 

Now,  it  was  difficult  for  us  to  unite  our  idea  of  an  angel 
with  Michel,  who  was  a  peculiarly  insignificant-looking 
and  ugly  man,  with  whitish-yellow  hair  and  beard,  and 
very  surly  in  his  manners.  But,  of  course,  Marie  and  I 
were  wicked  enough  to  encourage  her  in  this  innocent  and 
laudable  weakness ;  so,  when  she  interrupted  us  on  the 
afternoon  in  question,  I  commenced  praising  her  hus 
band's  fine  fruit  and  industry,  concluding  with, — "Ah, 
Madame  Michel,  it  is  not  every  one  that  is  so  lucky  as 
you  are !" 

"  That  is  so,  Miss  Fanny !"  she  burst  out,  exultingly, 
drawing  up  her  prim  chin  in  a  self-satisfied  manner,  which 
was  so  inexpressibly  funny  that  Tante  Cecile  had  to  turn 
aside  to  hide  her  smiles ;  "  that  is  so  !  Ah,  his  goodness 
is  inexpressible!  And  I!  Miss  Fanny,  you  see" — and 
she  spread  out  her  hands,  as  if  to  give  generously  a  full 
view  of  her  whole  person, — "  I  am  no  longer  young;  while 
he  is  such  a  handsome  fellow.  So  amiable,  so  tender  when 
we  are  alone.  He  is  cold  and  reserved,  Miss  Fanny,  be 
fore  persons,  but  to  me  he  is  an  angel — perfection !  Ah, 
what  goodness !  It  is  inexpressible!"  And  she  folded 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  153 

her  thin,  long-fingered  hands,  and  threw  up  her  sharp 
little  eyes  in  an  attempt  at  a  rapturous  expression,  leaving 
the  sentence  unfinished,  as  if  words  could  not  express  this 
"bonte  inexprimable." 

I  could  not  help  laughing;  and,  to  cover  it  over,  I  said, 
reproachfully:  "Ah,  madame  !  you  make  spinsters  like  me 
envious." 

She  never  dreamed  -of  being  absurd  —  who  does,  es 
pecially  when  the  most  so  ? — but  commenced  saying  con 
soling  things  to  me,  in  a  confidential  tone,  about  my  matri 
monial  hopes  in  the  future. 

"  But  where  is  your  pretty  niece  Emilie  ?"  I  asked.  "  I 
want  to  see  her  bright  face  again ;  and  Dora  needs  the 
assistance  of  her  clever  hands  in  renovating  our  winter 
clothing.  She  must  not  leave  Peilz  without  giving  us  a 
week.  I  promised  my  Dora  to  engage  her  this  afternoon." 

Madame  Michel's  pale  face  grew  red,  and  she  stammered 
out  that  Emilie  had  left  Peilz  that  morning;  that  she  had 
been  called  suddenly  home  to  Sallenches,  and  would  not' 
return  probably  all  winter. 

"  She  left  this  morning,  then  ?"  said  Tante  Cecile, 
eagerly;  "  and  you  are  sure  she  returns  to  the  Valais?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  woman,  seriously ; 
"  Michel  had  business  at  Gr.,  and  he  took  her  himself." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Tante  Cecile ;  "  and 
she  had  better  remain  in  the  Valais :  she  is  much  too 
pretty  and  inexperienced  to  go  out  into  the  world  to  earn 
her  living.  I  hope  soon  to  hear,  madame,  that  she  is  mar 
ried  suitably ;  that  would  be  the  best  thing  for  her." 

"Yes;  and  married  as  satisfactorily  as  madame,"  I 
added,  with  a  laugh  and  shake  of  the  head ;  and  we  bade 
Madame  Michel  good  evening,  while  she  was  just  about 
recommencing  her  enunciation  of  Michel's  "  bonte  inex- 
primable." 


154  COMPENSATION; 

"  You  do  not  know,  then,  about  Emilie  ?"  asked  Tante 
Cecile,  as  we  walked  off  down  on  the  lake  shore. 

"  What  about  her  ?" 

"Why,  poor  Emilie  is  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  between 
Marie  and  Octave.  He  has  always  shown  a  disposition  to 
flirt  with  her  ;  but  it  went  so  far  this  autumn  as  to  give  us 
all  great  anxiety.  Elise,  it  appears,  has  been  very  uneasy 
for  some  time  at  Emilie's  altered  manner,  and  her  fits  of 
weeping  at  night ;  but  when  Emilie  told  her  she  thought 
she  would  go  to  Paris  to  work  at  her  trade,  where  she 
could  make  more  money,  she  grew  alarmed,  and  told  her 
mother.  Madame  Michel  remonstrated  with  the  girl,  but 
she  answered  her  aunt  pertly ;  and,  on  her  throwing  out 
some  conceited  hints  of  expecting  to  be  a  lady  sometime, 
Madame  Michel  asked  my  advice,  and  I  counseled  her  to 
send  her  home  to  her  grandmother,  at  Sallenches." 

"  How  wicked,"  I  cried,  "  for  Octave  to  play  upon  the 
vanity  of  that  silly  girl  !" 

*  "  Marie  thought  she  had  better  remonstrate  with  him," 
said  Tante  Cecile ;  "  but  he  did  not  receive  her  remon 
strances  amiably:  he  expressed  himself  very  much  sur 
prised  at  what  he  called  her  '  unmaidenly  interference  in 
an  affair  that  ought  to  be  quite  out  of  the  knowledge  of  a 
delicate,  retined  woman.' " 

"  She  must  have  felt  awkwardly  enough  when  he  chose 
to  put  such  an  unjust  construction  on  it." 

"  No ;  I  do  not  believe  she  did,"  answered  Tante  Cecile, 
shaking  her  head  ;  "  although  I  am  sure  I  should.  But  it 
showed  his  good-for-nothing  impertinence,  to  endeavor  to 
abash  her  so.  I  asked  Marie  what  answer  she  made  him, 
and  she  said,  '  I  told  him  I  did  not  think  it  unmaidenly  to 
endeavor  to  save  a  weak  young  girl  from  the  thoughtless, 
unmeaning  attentions  of  an  attractive  young  man,  who 
was  only  amusing  himself;  that  I  had  hoped,  by  appealing 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  155 

to  his  good  sense  and  honor,  he  would  see  the  impropriety 
of  his  conduct ;  that  I  was  much  more  surprised  at  his 
ungenerous  way  of  trying  to  make  me  feel  ashamed  of 
what  was  a  creditable  act — indeed,  a  duty;'  and  then,  she 
said,  she  refused  to  talk  any  more  about  it." 

Here  Marie  and  her  father  joined  us;  and  we  made  ar 
rangements  to  spend  the  following  day  "  under  the  forest 
trees." 

"  You  have  never  visited  Blonay  yet,  have  you  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Merle. 

"  No  ;  is  it  not  too  far  ?" 

"By  no  means,  for  such  pedestrians  as  you  are  ;  more 
over,  you  can  take  the  donkey  along  to  relieve  you  when 
you  feel  tired  in  the  ascent.  It  is  only  three-quarters  of  a 
league  from  here, — that  is,  about  three  miles,  as  you  would 
call  it, — on  the  Pleiades,  and  you  take  the  same  road  that 
passes  through  your  favorite  Hauteville.  It  is  a  grand 
old  chateau ;  it  was  built  in  the  tenth  century  by  Otho 
Grandson,  and,  at  this  very  day,  belongs  to  a  descendant 
of  this  same  old  Otho.  In  the  middle  ages  the  family 
was  so  powerful  that  it  held  dominion  over  twenty-five 
villages.  At  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  the  family, 
being  divided  in  religion,  divided  their  property ;  the 
Catholic  branch  established  themselves  in  the  Chablais, 
where  they  possessed  an  estate  above  Evian  ;  the  ProteS" 
tant  remained  at  Blonay.  Oh,  you  must  go,  by  all  means, 
to  Blonay,  if  for  nothing  else,  to  see  the  fine  view  from  the 
balcony  of  the  dining-room,  on  the  second  floor." 

So,  to  Blonay  it  was  decided  we  should  go  the  following 
day.  The  morning  was  very  clear  and  bright,  and  though 
we  started  early,  at  seven  o'clock,  we  found  the  peasants, 
three  hours  in  advance  of  us,  at  work  in  their  vineyards. 
The  autumn  was  singularly  long ;  the  vintage  had  begun 
some  weeks  before,  and  the  harvest  was  very  fine;  the 


156  COM  PENS  A  TION; 

vineyards  were  filled  with  crowds  of  people :  men,  women, 
and  children,  gathering  the  bunches  of  grapes.  Large 
wagons,  with  heavy  cuves,  or  casks,  stood  in  the  roads, 
and  men,  bending  under  the  brandes, — wooden  vessels, 
strapped  on  to  their  backs, — came  swaying  to  and  fro, 
from  the  motion  of  the  golden  grape-juice,  as  they  de 
scended  with  care  the  steps  leading  from  the  terraced 
vineyards  to  the  road,  and  there  deposited,  in  the  hogs 
heads  or  cuves,  the  juice  and  pressed  mass  of  the  grape. 

They  all  gave  us  good-natured  greetings,  and  gifts  of 
huge  bunches  were  forced  generously  upon  us  with  all 
the  warm-hearted  kindness  of  the  Yaudois.  We  reached 
Blonay  about  ten  o'clock.  Tante  Cecile,  Marie,  and  I, 
with  Dora  and  Beau,  made  up  the  party.  Mr.  Merle  had 
agreed  to  dine  with  the  professor  that  day ;  and  Tante 
Cecile  had  given  her  two  maidens  permission  to  go  grape- 
gathering  in  the  vineyards  of  some  relatives,  which  is  a 
great  amusement  for  the  young  girls  and  lads  at  vintage- 
time.  Madame  Bouvreuil  and  Helene  were  to  join  us  in 
the  after-part  of  the  day,  as  Kinnaird,  who  had  no  lessons 
on  that  afternoon,  was  to  drive  them  out  in  a  little  wagon. 
We  did  not  visit  the  chateau  first,  for  we  were  tired ;  so 
we  sought  out  a  warm  sunny  place  in  the  woods  to  rest, 
where  we  talked  or  read  aloud  alternately. 

"  Beau  is  the  most  sensible  one  of  the  party,"  said 
Tante  Cecile,  going  to  the  donkey,  and  taking  off  the 
pannier  of  provisions,  while  we  arranged  the  books,  shawls, 
rugs,  and  camp-stools.  "  He  has  been  courteously  inviting 
us  to  take  some  refreshment,  after  our  long  walk,  ever 
since  we  arrived." 

Beau  sat  looking  very  sternly  at  the  provision-basket ;  he 
did  not  notice  our  laughs,  or  anything  but  the  place  and 
position  of  the  darling  basket.  As  we  were  all  hungry, 
we  opened  it,  to  his  great  satisfaction,  and  soon  he  had  the 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  157 

pleasure  of  crunching  chop-bones  on  the  velvety  moss 
which  formed  a  tufted  carpet  under  the  old  chestnut  and 
walnut  trees. 

After  our  collation,  we  leaned  back  against  the  old  tree- 
trunks,  and  enjoyed  luxuriously  our  rest,  and  listened  to 
Marie,  whose  memory  was  stored  with  legends  of  all  these 
old  chateaux.  How  I  wish  I  could  transport  my  readers 
to  the  delicious  spot  and  its  surroundings  !  From  an 
opening  in  the  wood  we  could  look  through  and  see  the 
fine  old  chateau  tower  above  us;  and,  beneath  us,  long 
terraced  roads,  descending,  like  tripping  maidens,  through 
the  magnificent  chestnut  forest.  Tante  Cecile  and  I  sat 
embroidering,  Dora  crocheting,  Beau,  serious  as  a  judge, 
dozed  solemn  slumbers  beside  the  provision-pannier,  and 
the  donkey  fed  peacefully,  near  at  hand,  in  the  meadows 
of  the  chateau,  while  Marie  sat  on  a  cushion,  on  the  soft 
mossy  ground,  and  told  her  wild  legends  in  the  quaintest 
old  French,  that  sounded  like  some  one  of  those  lark 
songs 

"  that  glorious  Chaucer  sung 
Away  in  England's  morn." 

In  the  afternoon,  Madame  Bouvreuil,  Helene,  and  Kin- 
naird  joined  us  ;  then  we  rambled  over  the  old  chateau, 
and  grew  wise  as  antiquarians  over  old  bahuts,  or  chests, 
and  buffets,  or  cabinets,  some  covered  with  inlaid  armorial 
bearings,  and  some  sculptured  with  Annunciations  and 
rich  garlands  and  clusters  of  the  symbolical  pomegranate 
and  grape,  which  told  of  their  old  use  in  chapels  in  ages 
long  gone  by.  We  stood  in  the  large  balcony  window  of 
the  salon  on  the  second  floor,  and  gazed  peacefully  over 
the  gracious  landscape  spread  out  beneath  and  beyond  us ; 
then  turned  lingeringly  away  to  commence  our  walk  home 
ward.  We  found  in  the  vineyards  a  merrier  scene  than 
the  early  morning  presented.  Most  of  the  courting  among 

14 


1.58  COMPENSATION; 

the  Vaudois  peasants  is  done  during  the  vintage-time. 
After  the  gathering  of  the  day  is  over,  it  is  the  work  of 
the  young  men  to  go  and  examine  the  different  parts 
allotted  to  the  young  girls,  to  see  if  they  have  culled  the 
bunches  well,  and  every  young  peasant  girl  who  may,  by 
chance,  have  left  a  bunch,  is  subject  to  the  punishment  of 
a  kiss,  to  be  given  to  her  by  the  lucky  young  man  who 
finds  it.  From  many  a  vineyard  rose  merry  shouts,  an 
nouncing  the  rustic  gallantry  of  the  young  men ;  and  old 
fathers  and  mothers,  who  stood  by  the  reeking  and  drip 
ping  casks  in  the  road,  laughed  heartily;  for  many  an 
old  couple  remembered  their  own  frolicsome  young  days. 

Light  had  faded  ;  every  golden-tinted  cloud  had  grown 
gray,  and  bright  stars  glimmered  and  sparkled  out  in  the 
sky,  and  peeped  out  between  the  waving  folding  clouds, 
as  we  came  down  the  road  that  led  to  the  old  Peilz  church. 
A  long  line  of  wagons,  with  wine- casks  and  peasants, 
passed  under  the  church  arch  with  us,  and  entered  the 
Peilz  street,  suggesting  to  the  professor  and  Mr.  Merle, 
who  came  up  the  road  to  meet  us,  the  comparison  to  an 
ancient  procession  in  honor  of  Bacchus.  But  the  merry 
shouts  of  the  peasants  proved  that  their  labor  had  wearied 
them  less  than  our  pleasure  had  us ;  for  we  were  forced 
to  admit  that  we  were  very  tired,  and  quite  willing  to  woo 
"sweet  sleep,  nature's  kind  restorer,"  under  the  friendly 
warmth  of  our  silk  down  cover. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  159 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    WINTER. 

THE  cold  weather  soon  after  set  in.  One  morning,  on 
awakening,  I  found  the  tops  of  the  opposite  Savoy  Alps 
covered  with  snow,  looking  like  the  mountains  that  sur 
round  Chamouni.  There  had  been  a  long  rain  of  several 
days,  which  rain-storm  had  been  snow  on  the  mountains. 
How  dreary  it  looked  to  me!  and  I  shivered  and  drew 
closer  to  the  porcelain  stove,  and  wrapped  my  fur  tippet 
close  about  me  whenever  I  crossed  the  brick-paved  halls 
and  stone  staircases  on  my  way  to  the  dining-room. 
Marie,  and  especially  Helene,  laughed  at  me,  and  told  me 
I  must  learn  to  enjoy  their  Swiss  winters  as  well  as  the 
summers,  for  the  winters  had  their  sports  also.  Snow  fell 
on  our  roads,  and  the  ice  hardened  on  the  ponds  and  inlets 
at  the  head  of  the  lake  ;  sleigh-horses  jingled  their  merry 
bells,  and  the  students  of  Institution  Eperveil  sallied  forth 
with  their  skates. 

Madame  Eperveil  gave  holiday  every  Saturday  during 
the  skating  season,  and  the  boys  were  always  off  early  to 
a  favorite  skating  spot,  a  little  inlet  of  the  lake,  above 
Zillium.  One  morning  I  wrapped  myself  up  carefully, 
and  accompanied  Helene  to  the  scene  of  action — for,  being 
as  good  a  skater  as  the  boys,  she  rarely  missed  a  Saturday's 
skating.  It  was  a  merry  sight:  the  surrounding  mountains 
were  gray  and  grim  enough,  and  the  air  biting  cold ;  but, 
though  nature  seemed  inhospitable,  everybody  was  bent 


160  COMPENSA  TION; 

upon  making  amends  for  her  rugged  humor,  and  disposed 
to  find  amusement  even  from  it. 

Booths  were  scattered  about,  in  which  were  sold,  to  the 
boys  and  other  people  attracted  to  the  place,  coffee,  cakes, 
and  even  sausages,  which  were  kept  hot  over  little  chafing- 
dishes  and  boilers.  The  women  who  guarded  these  booths 
were  mostly  puffy,  pincushiony-looking  dames,  in  short 
brown  and  blue  stuff  petticoats,  Montreux  jackets  of  tri- 
cotted  worsted,  and  Montreux  caps  and  hats,  which  last 
are  remarkable  pieces  of  toilette ;  the  cap  is  made  of  black 
silk,  shaped  like  the  old  mob-cap,  and  has  a  broad  border 
of  stiff,  black  lace,  which  stands  out  around  the  face  in  all 
its  fluted  grandeur ;  the  hat  is  as  often  hung  on  the  arm 
as  perched  on  the  top  of  this  cap,  and  is  a  yellowish-white 
coarse  straw,  with  a  crown  shaped  like  a  bottle, — the  nar 
row  neck  of  the  bottle  forming  the  top  or  centre  of  the 
crown. 

There  were  stronger  drinks  than  coffee  at  these  booths: 
various  fermented  liquids,  and  the  pungent,  fresh  wine  of 
the  country, — of  which  the  peasants  are  unfortunately  so 
fond;  and,  pure  grape-juice  as  it  is,  it  causes  as  disgust 
ing  drunkenness,  duty-neglecting,  and  wife-beating,  as  our 
own  more  homely  rum  and  apple-jack. 

The  students  were  mostly  fine  skaters ;  but  none  were 
better  than  Kinjiaird,  whose  large,  athletic  form  was  shown 
to  great  advantage  in  this  manly  amusement.  But  my 
greatest  pleasure  was  in  looking  at  Helene.  I  had  never 
seen  a  woman  skate  before,  and  had  hardly  expected  to 
think  it  so  graceful  an  exercise.  Her  costume  was  very 
pretty :  a  short  skirt  and  basque  of  dark,  garnet-colored 
merino,  edged  with  a  narrow  border  of  black  fur;  a  collar 
and  wristbands  also  of  fur,  and  pantaloons  of  the  same 
material  as  the  dress,  slightly  fulled  into  the  band,  which 
encircled  the  ankle  at  the  top  of  the  high-laced  morocco 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  161 

boots ;  a  brown  felt  hat  and  feather  completed  this  very 
becoming  dress.  Her  cheeks  grew  brilliant,  her  eyes 
danced,  and  a  prettier  woman  than  Helene  Bouvreuil 
could  hardly  be  found ;  and  so  her  lover  thought,  evi 
dently,  as  I  noticed  that  he  stole  many  a  quiet,  admiring 
glance  at  her,  when  he  fancied  no  one  saw  him  indulging 
in  such  a  weakness.  I  stayed  some  time,  enjoying  the 
wonderful  performances  of  the  best  skaters,  who  cut  my 
name  on  the  ice  and  did  a  variety  of  remarkable  feats ; 
then  I  drove  back  to  Peilz,  with  Madame  Bouvreuil,  long 
before  Helene  or  the  students  and  tutors  had  any  idea  of 
returning. 

The  extreme  cold  weather,  even  during  that  slight  ex 
posure,  affected  me  seriously ;  and  for  many  weeks  after 
that  gay  Saturday  I  was  too  much  of  an  invalid  to  enjoy 
any  out-door  amusement ;  and  even  during  the  whole  sea 
son  I  did  little  beyond  visiting  at  the  chateau  and  Institu 
tion  Eperveil.  The  concerts,  lectures,  and  dramatic  read 
ings  continued  weekly  there,  and  generally,  when  I  felt 
well  enough,  I  went  to  them  ;  but  my  closer  acquaintance 
with  Madame  Eperveil  did  not  make  us  like  each  other 
even  as  well  as  we  promised  to  at  first.  I  was  not  strong 
enough  in  health  to  be  very  patient  with  her  dictatorial 
manners,  and  our  opinions  were  so  diametrically  opposite 
on  every  subject,  that  it  was  difficult  to  avoid  discussion. 
My  state  of  health  caused  her  great  annoyance ;  of  course, 
she  sneered  at  it  behind  my  back,  considering  it  imaginary ; 
and  to  my  face,  she  threw  out  hints  against  my  mode  of 
life ;  late  hours,  long  days  in  the  open  air  during  the  au 
tumnal  fogs,  and  want  of  regular  occupation,  formed  her 
usual  themes  of  conversation  ;  which  preaching  grew  so 
wearisome  that  I  rarely  condescended  to  reply  to  her,  and 
listened  so  indifferently  that  I  even  provoked  the  good 
professor  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  my  defence.  It  was 

14* 


162  COMPENSA  TION; 

amusing  to  hear  him  represent  to  her  that  as  to  late  hours 
he  indulged  in  them  himself,  and  that  no  one  could  dispute 
his  actual  possession  of  good  health ;  that  out-door  life  was 
excellent  for  the  spirits,  and  that  Mademoiselle  Fauvette 
was  the  most  industrious  person  he  had  ever  seen.  When 
it  arrived  at  this  personal  crisis  I  generally  withdrew,  for 
I  did  not  admit  the  right  which  Madame  Eperveil  wished 
to  exercise  over  me, — as  over  every  one  else, — of  sitting 
in  judgment  on  me  and  my  pursuits. 

Madame  Bouvreuil  and  Helene  were  so  tender  and  kind 
that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be  nursed  by  them ;  and  Tante 
Cecile  and  Marie  united  with  them  in  loving  care  and  sym 
pathy.  They  made  me  spend  several  days  at  a  time  with 
them  at  the  chateau ;  and  as  the  guest-chamber  opened  on 
the  salon,  I  could  lie  on  the  bed  in  it  and  enjoy  from  the 
open  door  all  Marie's  music.  One  day,  I  had  suffered  so 
much  from  languor,  succeeding  an  attack  of  severe  pain, 
that  I  was  forced  to  remain  in  bed.  Marie  played  for  me, 
and  Tante  Cecile  read  her  favorite  Emile  Souvestre  aloud, 
and  talked  her  soft  soothing  words.  At  twilight,  Tante 
Cecile  tied  on  me  a  pretty  lace  cap  her  skillful  fingers  had 
been  fashioning  for  me ;  and  we  were  admiring  its  be- 
comingness,  when  the  salon  door  opened,  and  we  heard 
the  voices  of  strange  gentlemen  talking  to  Mr.  Merle  and 
Wolfmaister. 

"  Heinrich  Henzler !"  cried  Marie  joyfully,  and  she  ran 
into  the  salon,  followed  by  Tante  Cecile. 

I  had  so  often  heard  them  speak  of  this  German  friend, 
that  I  could  well  understand  their  delight  at  his  visit.  He 
had  been  a  student  of  Institution  Eperveil,  but  his  decided 
genius  for  music  had  induced  his  father  to  allow  him  to 
devote  himself  to  it  as  a  profession.  Tante  Octavie  had 
pronounced  it  apiece  of  madness,  and  had  prophesied  beg 
gary,  and  worse  than  that,  for  the  young  lad  ;  but  his  sue- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  163 

cess  had  been  as  remarkable  as  his  ability.  He  had  shown 
great  capability  in  orchestral  direction,  and  at  the  time  I 
first  met  him  he  was  chief  of  one  of  the  finest  public  orches 
tras  in  Vienna.  His  concerts  were  crowded,  his  waltzes 
and  orchestral  arrangements  all  the  rage ;  and  Heinrich 
Henzler  was  considered  the  principal  German  composer  of 
that  very  attractive  and  popular  style  of  music. 

His  troupe  had  also  a  great  reputation,  and  his  manage 
ment  was  highly  commended.  They  were  all  young,  un 
married  men,  and  he  required  they  should  all  possess  a 
certain  amount  of  education  on  joining  his  troupe  ;  and  he 
made  them  enter  into  solemn  engagements  also  against  all 
habits  or  indulgences  that  could  lead  to  dissipation.  But 
their  chief  was  their  friend  as  well  as  their  director ;  he 
associated  with  them,  and  took  great  pride  in  arranging 
the  hours  of  study  and  practice,  both  alone  and  in  concert. 
They  had  traveled  in  America,  and  all  over  Europe,  giv 
ing  famous  concerts.  Although  his  dancing  and  military 
music  was  so  popular,  he  also  prided  himself  on  the  style 
in  which  his  troupe  executed  Mozart  and  Beethoven.  Cer 
tain  days  were  given  to  the  study  of  these  great  masters, 
and  his  classical  concerts  were  no  less  celebrated  than  the 
gayer  miscellaneous  ones.  Presently  Marie  came  back  to 
me,  saying,— 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  you  are  not  able  to  be  out  in  the 
salon !  for  Heinrich  can  only  stay  this  evening  with  us. 
He  is  on  his  way  to  Paris,  where  he  and  his  orchestra  are 
going  to  be  present  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Beethoven 
Salon  ;  and  he  says  he  has  stopped  just  to  have  a  prac 
ticing  with  me.  However,  you  can  listen  to  us  from  this 
room,  and  you  shall  hear  that  grand  trio  in  E  flat,  of  Bee 
thoven,  and  Mozart's  Swan  Song." 

"  And  the  Ghost  Trio  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  Ghost  Trio  by  all  means,  for  he  knows 


164  COMPENSATION; 

that  there  is  a  ghostly  lady  to  listen  to  him  here  in  the 
guest-room." 

"  Surely,  if  Heinrich  could  only  see  Fanny  in  her  be 
witching  little  cap,"  said  Tante  Cecile,  laughing,  "  he 
would  feel  doubly  inspired.  I  think,  my  child,  we  must 
arrange  you  on  the  lounge,  near  the  door  of  the  salon  ; 
such  a  picturesque  effect  must  not  be  lost  on  our  merry 
young  artist  Heinrich,  who  loves  a  bit  of  funny  romance 
amazingly." 

The  dear  old  lady  playfully  insisted  upon  carrying  her 
point,  and  summoned  Louise,  the  stout,  sturdy  maid,  who 
gathered  me  up  as  if  I  had  been  no  heavier  than  her  empty 
watcT-brande,  or  cask ;  and  I  was  snugly  placed  on  the 
sofa,  with  shawls  and  cushions,  near  the  salon  door — only 
just  light  enough  thrown  on  me  to  show  "  the  bewitching 
little  cap  to  advantage,"  as  Tante  Cecile  said.  The  gen 
tlemen1  had  gone  down  to  supper  while  these  arrangements 
were  being  made,  and  I  was  so  exhausted  after  they  were 
over  that  I  lay  back  on  the  cushions  and  feared  that  I 
should  not  be  able  to  enjoy  the  music.  Tante  Cecile's  de 
licious  cream-cakes  and  fragrant  tea  could  not  tempt  me 
even  to  eat,  and  I  closed  my  eyes,  begging  them  not  to 
mind  me,  to  let  me  lie  there  in  silence,  and  probably  with 
the  music  the  strength  would  come. 

Marie  returned  to  the  salon,  and  soon  the  music  com 
menced.  Henzler's  principal  violoncellist  was  with  him, 
and  Wolfmaister  took  the  viola,  while  Marie  played  the 
piano.  They  executed  first,  as  a  quartette,  the  allegro  in 
Mozart's  Symphony,  called  the  "  Swan  Song;"  but  I  was 
too  exhausted  to  appreciate  it  as  I  wished  ;  it  was  grand 
and  noble ;  and  as  thoughts  of  death  came  with  reviving 
strength  into  my  mind,  I  felt  how  much  the  agony  of  one's 
last  moments  might  be  softened  by  such  sounds.  They 
then  played  the  grand  trio  in  E  flat,  of  Beethoven.  Marie 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  165 

and  I  had  just  been  reading  together  that  admirable  book, 
Trois  Styles  de  Beethoven,  by  De  Lenz ;  and  his  fine  de 
scription  of  this  glorious  trio  was  remembered  with  satis 
faction,  as  I  listened  to  the  music.  The  masses  of  sounds 
poured  out  like  grand  chorals.  Then  followed  tearful,  sor 
rowing  minors  ;  and  after  these  the  melody  came  floating 
out  airily  and  lightly,  like  hope  in  the  midst  of  appre 
hension.  But  in  the  finale,  the  suggestions  crowded  one 
upon  another ;  there  was  the  delicious  repose  of  bubbling 
fountains,  the  whirl  of  feeling  while  looking  at  a  wild 
mountain  course,  and  the  sublime  elevation  caused  by 
rolling  storm-clouds  and  a  raging  sea,  with  fierce,  driving 
waves,  lashed  by  the  wind;  then  the  tumult  of  harmonies 
mounted  up  higher  and  higher,  as  each  instrument  vied 
with  the  other.  I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  for  my 
mind  seemed  bewildered  with  the  thick-thronging  fancies 
crowding  up  before  it. 

After  this  was  over,  they  had  a  great  deal  of  merry, 
sparkling  talk,  and  then  they  tried  over  some  new  music 
Henzler  had  brought  with  him.  One  trio — a  serenade  by 
Chopin's  friend  Hiller — struck  me  forcibly,  especially  the 
passage  called  "  Ghazel,"  toward  the  close.  The  violin 
and  violoncello  rang  out  the  solemn  fatum  relentlessly  but 
pityingly,  in  answer  to  the  childlike  complaint  of  the  piano, 
which  resents  in  rebellious  but  sweet  modulations — -some 
times  as  if  in  dumb  pain — the  undeserved  sorrow.  The 
last,  despairing  remonstrance  poured  sobbingly  out  in 
broken  sounds  of  octaves,  replying  to  the  base  ;  and  then 
there  came  the  mute  chord  in  the  time,  which  sounded  like 
the  dumb,  voiceless  interrogation  of  the  heart,  when  de 
spairing  humanity  dares  to  turn  its  glazed  eye  to  heaven, 
feeling,  but  not  asking,  "  Why  this  fearful  pain,  this  un 
merited  judgment  ?" 


166  COMPENSATION; 

I  began  to  fear  that  I  should  not  bear  my  favorite  trio 
of  Beethoven,  in  D  major,  Opus  70,  called  the  Ghost  Trio; 
but,  after  a  little  delay,  the  simple,  singing  theme  of  the 
opening  of  this  beautiful  trio  commenced.  Hoffmann's 
admirable  analysis  of  it  seemed  more  true  and  just  than 
ever  I  had  thought  it  before. 

"In  this  artistic  construction,"  he  says,  "the  most  won 
derful  pictures  vie  and  mix  with  one  another,  and  in  them 
are  portrayed  gladness,  grief,  and  gentle  happiness.  Strange 
forms  begin  a  merry  dance,  and  then  vanish  in  a  point  of 
light — then  return,  and,  gleaming  and  flashing,  dart  to  and 
fro ;  and  for  an  instant  the  enchanted  soul  seems  to  be  in  a 
spirit-kingdom,  where  she  hears  and  understands  the  un 
known  tongue,  and  comprehends  all  secret  warnings  and 
thoughts." 

The  largo  of  this  trio  is  very  peculiar,  as  De  Lenz  re 
marks.  The  violin  and  violoncello  performed  the  principal 
theme,  and  Marie's  fine  piano  and  excellent  execution  pro 
duced  an  effect  that  even  made  Wolfmaister,  so  chary  in  his 
praises,  cry  ".Brava  "  and  "Bene."  She  put  both  pedals 
down,  then  poured  off,  as  it  were,  the  glittering,  liquid 
stream  of  accompaniment  lightly,  almost  murmuringly, 
producing  an  effect  like  a  soft  atmosphere  thrown  over  a 
delicious  picture,  or  an  opaline  haze  such  as  one  sees 
bathing  the  landscapes  on  the  Mediterranean  shores,  or 
still  more  like  the  rich  autumnal  golden-purple  mists 
hanging  at  sunset  over  our  beautiful  Swiss  mountains. 
The  violin  and  violoncello  talk  together,  as  the  human 
being  might  question  its  spirit  at  a  moment  when  all  hu 
man  counsel  is  helpless ;  the  guardian  demon  remonstrates 
and  reasons  with  its  mortal  charge  ;  and  after  the  dialogue 
the  flood-like  descending  scale  of  the  piano  throws  a  bril 
liant  flash  of  light  over  the  solemn  converse  of  the  two — 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  167 

mortal  and  spirit.  The  trio  then  mounts  up  grandly ;  it 
is  as  if  the  ghosthr  counselor  had  left  the  mortal,  filled 
with  glorious  and  beautiful  presentiments,  high  and  holy 
hopes,  which  make  it  glad  and  joyful;  it  turns  away  freely 
from  this  shrunken  world,  in  which,  only  a  little  while  be 
fore,  all  its  hopes  and  wishes  had  been  centred,  and  looks 
hopefully  and  yearningly  toward  an  unknown  land,  the 
warm,  delicious  life-breath  of  which  seems  already  stealing 
over  it ;  while  the  pure  instrumentation  of  the  close  gives 
the  grandest  expression  to  poetical  thought. 

Henzler  and  Wolfmaister  discussed  Beethoven  enthusi 
astically  ;  and  yet  Wolfmaister  was  one  who,  if  he  had 
lived  in  the  days  of  Beethoven,  would  have  condemned 
his  music  as  eccentric  and  exaggerated.  Marie  sat  looking 
gray  and  dull,  as  if  her  soul  had  gone  out  with  the  music. 
Presently  her  face  lighted  up,  and  I  saw  Henzler  lean  over 
the  piano  to  talk  with  her.  "While  they  talked,  Mr.  Merle 
and  the  other  gentlemen  left  the  room,  to  go  down  and 
smoke  awhile  in  the  library ;  but  Henzler  remained  with 
Marie.  They  talked  long  and  earnestly,  and  part  of  the 
conversation  was  a  generous  expression  of  admiration  on 
his  part  of  Marie's  execution  and  expression  ;  then  he  told 
her,  as  freely  as  a  brother  might,  all  his  musical  schemes 
and  plans.  After  some  time  he  rose  up,  as  if  to  take  leave ; 
and,  to  my  surprise,  both  approached  the  bedroom  door. 
Tante  Cecile  advanced  toward  them,  and,  after  a  few  pleas 
ant  compliments,  Henzler  said,  in  a  tone  of  playful  but 
courteous  freedom, — . 

"  Tante  Cecile,  I  want  you  to  present  me  to  Marie's  mys 
terious  unknown,  whose  delicious  little  lace  cap,  flitting  to 
and  fro  in  the  indistinct  light  of  this  room,  gave  me  so 
much  inspiration  this  evening." 

I  bent  forward  and  half  rose  up,  with  as  much  strength 


168  COMPENSATION; 

as  I  possessed,  and,  extending  my  hand  to  him,  told  him 
that  we  needed  no  introduction  ;  that  his  music,  if  not  his 
well-known  name,  made  me  feel  already  as  a  friend  to  him. 
He  leaned  his  tall,  slender  figure  against  the  door,  and 
received  with  jesting  gracefulness  our  compliments  and 
praises;  after  that  a  little  pleasant  conversation,  then  a 
hearty  grasp  of  the  hand,  a  merry,  ringing  laugh,  and  Hein- 
rich  Henzler  was  gone. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  169 


CHAPTER    XIY. 

DE  LENZ  AND  CHOPIN. 

SORROW  and  suffering  reach  an  end,  like  everything  else 
in  this  world  ;  and  "  the  yesterdays  to  come  "  arrive  at  last, 
and  make  us  forget  that  "spirit  of  the  day  deceased" 
which  so  often  walks  solemnly  beside  us,  clouding  the  pres 
ent  pleasure.  AVith  the  approach  of  spring  my  physical 
pains  began  to  disappear,  and  I  was  again  free  to  enjoy 
God's  blessed  sunlight,  out  on  the  glorious  hills.  March 
opened  pleasantly  ;  snow  still  lay  on  some  of  the  sheltered 
vineyards  and  by-roads;  but  on  the  mountain-sides  the 
spring  sun  poured  down  its  rays,  and  melted  off  the  winter 
drapery,  which  joined  with  the  thawing  snow  from  the 
mountain-tops  to  swell  the  streams  that  came  coursing 
down  into  the  lake,  and  made  of  them  roaring  torrents. 
Our  mild-spoken  Oignon,  which  had  wandered  so  graciously 
through  Hauteville  and  played  its  cascade  so  peacefully 
that  the  professor  teasingly  questioned  its  existence,  now 
became  a  fierce,  impetuous  flood  ;  its  rushing  noise  could 
be  heard  at  a  great  distance  ;  and  the  Hauteville  cascade 
became  a  waterfall  of  the  most  approved  grandeur  and 
style,  threatening  to  carry  away  all  the  picturesque  obsta 
cles  of  rocks  and  old  tree-trunks  that  stood  between  the 
upper  and  lower  waterfall.  The  vineyards  grew  noisy, 
and  inhabited  with  the  industrious  peasant-world,  who 
were  hard  at  work,  digging  around  and  tying  up  their  vines 
neatly  with  straw  to  the  supporting  sticks. 

15 


1 7  0  CO  MP  ENS  A  TION  ; 

The  winter  was  over,  and  with  spring  came  new  plans 
for  every  one.  Our  whole  little  village  world  was  busy  ; 
and  this  epidemic  of  new  projects  and  plans  attacked  even 
the  well-poised  principal  of  the  long-established  Institution 
Eperveil.  She  had  her  capable  hands  and  strong  head 
also  full  of  momentous  affairs,  and,  as  usual,  acted  as  if  all 
other  arrangements  should  be  subservient  to  her  own.  Her 
distinguished  acquaintances,  the  Landsnechts,  had  written 
to  her  to  engage  a  cottage  ornee  for  them  near  Peilz,  as 
they  intended  making  this  part  of  the  country  their  head 
quarters  during  the  summer ;  and  they  also  wished  to  have 
a  day  governess  for  the  young  daughters.  The  family 
were  in  Vienna,  where  they  had  been  wintering,  and  were 
expected  to  arrive  in  May,  with  Octave  and  Lord  S. 
Madame  Eperveil  announced  to  her  niece  that  she  should 
have  the  enviable  position  of  governess  to  the  Misses 
Landsnecht,  and  Wolfmaister  was  commissioned  to  find 
an  extensive  cottage  for  the  wealthy  family.  Accord 
ingly,  a  grand  Swiss  chalet,  on  the  road  to  Clarens, 
was  procured,  with  every  orthodox  ornament  that  a  chalet 
should  possess,  of  wood-carved  eaves  and  outside  stair 
cases  and  decorations. 

Madame  Eperveil  had,  however,  a  cause  of  annoyance, 
to  make  a  shadow  to  all  this  brilliant  sunshine  of  impor 
tance.  Mr.  Serin,  who  had  been  her  head  master  ever  since 
the  death  of  her  husband,  had  dared  to  announce  that  at 
the  approaching  vacation  he  should  like  to  retire  from  his 
honorable  post.  Madame  Eperveil  could  scarcely  credit 
her  eyes  and  ears  when  she  read  aloud  the  good  old  gen 
tleman's  note,  bearing  this  information — for  he  had  not 
possessed  sufficient  courage  to  tell  her  by  word  of  mouth. 
His  reasons  were  good  :  a  son,  brought  up  and  educated 
at  the  institution,  and  who  had  only  left  a  few  years  be 
fore,  had  commenced  an  institution  of  his  own,  in  North 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  HI 

Germany,  and  offered  his  father  a  quiet  home,  wishing  to 
have  the  assistance  of  the  old  gentleman's  counsel,  and 
also  the  benefit  of  his  presence  and  name — which,  in  the 
eyes  of  his  patrons,  would  be  of  great  consequence. 

One  should  have  supposed,  to  have  heard  Tante  Octavie 
talk  and  believed  her  view  of  the  case,  that  Mr.  Serin  and 
his  son  were  monsters  of  ingratitude,  in  taking  this  step. 
"  A  boy  educated  under  her  own  roof!  A  man  employed 
by  her  ;  who  had  eaten  of  her  bread  for  thirty  years  !  She 
believed  it  to  be  a  plan  they  had  meanly  and  secretly  nour 
ished  for  years;"  always  winding  up  her  unreasonable 
anger  with  her  favorite  expression,  "  C'etait  impayable." 
She  never  reflected  that  she  had  been  paid  the  full  sum 
for  the  board  and  tuition  of  Serin,  Jr.,  and  had  received 
honest,  steady  service  from  Serin,  Sr.,  for  the  thirty  years' 
salary  she  had  paid  him.  So  skillfully  did  she  represent  her 
imaginary  injury,  that  both  father  and  son  were  silenced, 
and  felt,  at  the  first  dash  of  her  egotistical  resentment,  as 
if  probably  they  might  be  in  the  wrong.  She  coldly  told 
them  that  the  thing  was  impossible — at  least,  for  some 
time  yet ;  that  she  must  consult  with  her  nephew,  Mr. 
Octave  Bouvreuil.  The  position  of  head  master  he  in 
tended  to  take,  after  his  engagement  with  Lord  S.  should 
be  at  an  end ;  that  engagement  was  an  indefinite  one ;  it 
might  last  some  two  or  three  years  yet ;  and  until  he  de 
cided  upon  the  affair,  she  certainly  must  decline  making 
any  new  arrangements ;  and  she  said  all  this  in  such  a 
masterful  grand  manner  that  the  Messrs.  Serin,  struck 
aghast,  were  quite  amazed  at  their  involuntary,  unintended 
show  of  ingratitude. 

Serin,  Jr.,  however,  was  not  so  perfectly  convinced  of 
this  as  was  his  father,  and  he  returned  to  Germany  a  little 
grumbling;  resolved — as  he  mustered  up  enough  courage 
to  whisper  in  confidence  to  Tante  Cecile,  Marie,  and  me, 


172  COMPENSATION; 

just  before  he  left — to  keep  the  thing  in  view ;  that  he  did 
not  see  why  his  father  should  dance  attendance  on  the 
capricious  decisions  of  Mr.  Octave,  who  was  about  as  fit 
to  be  head  master  of  an  institution  for  education  as  he  was 
to  be  an  archangel.  Then,  startled  at  his  temerity,  he 
bound  us  to  strict  secrecy,  and  left,  muttering  unutterable 
things,  in  order  to  convince  himself  that  he  was  not  selfish 
or  ungrateful  in  wishing  to  have  his  own  father  assist  him 
in  his  honest  endeavors  in  establishing  a  school  by  which 
he  wished  to  earn  his  living. 

In  April,  part  of  the  Landsnecht  cortege  made  their  ap 
pearance,  in  the  persons  of  some  stylish-looking  little  girls 
and  boys,  headed  by  a  nursery  governess  and  tutor,  with 
an  army  of  men-  and  maid-servants.  Helene  was  installed 
into  her  new  office  of  day  governess  by  Madame  Eperveil, 
who  acted  on  the  occasion  as  an  empress  might,  after  con 
ferring  a  great  title,  with  lands  attached  thereto,  on  a  young 
and  obscure  relative.  This  threw  me  more  on  Marie  and 
Tante  Cecile  for  society,  as  Helene's  new  occupations  not 
only  filled  up  all  her  time,  but  gave  fresh  duties  to  Madame 
Bouvreuil. 

The  spring  fever  for  work  had  shown  itself  in  Marie,  by 
the  commencement  of  a  very  close  study  of  Mozart's  and 
Beethoven's  senates  arranged  for  four  hands,  which  she 
played  with  Wolfmaister.  On  the  evenings  of  their  prac- 
ticings  together,  I  always  took  my  embroidery  and  went 
to  the  chateau  to  listen  to  them.  One  evening,  when  I 
arrived,  I  found  her  in  high  argument  about  our  musical 
high-priest  Chopin,  with  Wolfmaister.  The  master  was 
striding  up  and  down  the  salon,  with  his  long  elf-locks 
tossed  wildly  off  of  his  forehead. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  he  cried,  in  his  shrill,  high-pitched  voice; 
"  I  should  know  something  about  the  matter  surely,  Marie. 
I  knew  Chopin  personally.  I  was  his  pupil  for  six  months. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  173 

This  very  waltz  I  studied  with  him,  when  it  was  com 
posed  ;  and  I  pride  myself  upon  playing  it  '  close  to  the 
letter  of  the  tradition,'  as  you  would  say." 

"  I  cannot  help  it  if  you  did,"  answered  Marie.  "  All 
I  can  say  is,  if  you  willfully  misunderstood  your  great  ad 
vantages,  it  is  not  my  fault.  You  certainly  did,  or  you 
would  not  insist  so  obstinately  upon  a  faulty  expression 
and  accent  which  is  so  widely  different  in  effect  from  the 
very  evident  meaning, — the  poetical  thought  contained  in 
the  composition." 

I  was  appealed  to,  and  found  that  the  cause  of  dispute 
was  that  exquisite  waltz  of  Chopin,  in  D  flat  major.  Wolf- 
maister  played  it,  to  prove  to  me  his  idea  of  the  style  in 
which  it  should  be  executed  ;  but,  by  his  regular  beat  and 
measured  accentuation,  the  waltz  did,  indeed,  lose  one-half 
of  its  beauty.  Then  Marie  played  it,  and  the  difference 
was  marvelously  striking.  Under  Wolfmaister's  fingers 
it  had  sounded  like  a  piece  of  crotchets  and  quavers,  beats 
and  measures.  Marie  made  of  it  a  poem.  There  was  an 
irresistible  hurrying  up  of  the  time  during  the  first  eight 
measures,  with  a  run  up  to  B  flat,  ending  with  a  click  on 
this  note,  as  keen  as  a  heart-clutch  at  the  first  moment  of 
the  certainty  of  mortal  sorrow ;  then  a  slight  relapsing, 
with  rainbow  lights  and  transparent  shadows,  for  four 
measures ;  the  motif  then  commenced  restlessly  again, 
bringing  back  the  old  torture, — "  the  old  wound,  ever  ach 
ing."  On  it  rushed  recklessly,  with  mad  swiftness,  sprink 
ling  the  way  with  tears  precious  as  pearls,  faster  and  faster, 
until  it  reached  a  resolution  that  seemed  like  some  desper 
ate  resolve,  at  which  hope  appeared  to  beam  out;  a  gleam 
of  peace  shone  over  the  heart ;  the  lovely,  rocking  rubato 
melody,  consoling  it  with  sweet  promises  and  gentle'  sobs 
of  relieved  anguish,  fell  from  the  broken  measures.  But 
suddenly  dissonances  were  heard;  the  tocsin  of  Fate  struck 

15* 


174  CO  MP ENS  A  TION; 

out  in  the  preparatory  trill,  as  if  to  remind  one  of  the  stern 
dictum  of  destiny, — that  the  heart  cannot  have  rest ;  the 
melody,  as  a  type  of  human  feeling,  relapsed  again  into 
sorrow,  and  then  came  the  finale, — the  whirlpool  of  pas 
sion,  which  seemed  to  ingulf  all  human  hope. 

"  Can  this  be  played  slowly  ?"  cried  the  enthusiastic 
girl.  "  Can  one  bind  one's  self,  in  such  an  inspiration  as 
this,  to  cold  rules  of  time  ?  You  might  as  well  ask  the 
wind  to  blow  to  the  measured  beat  of  the  metronome,  as 
attempt  to  curb  this  desperate  measure." 

Wolfmaister  was  touched  with  the  earnestness  of  Marie. 
With  any  other  pupil  he  would  have  been  irritable  and 
dictatorial,  as  he  was  very  often  with  her ;  but  at  times 
her  genius  overpowered  him,  and  although  he  could  not 
understand  her,  nor  hear  in  music  all  that  she  heard, — and 
even  sometimes  presumed  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  tone- 
tongue, — there  were  moments  when  her  strong  faith  im 
pressed  him  ;  and  this  was  one  of  those  moments.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  with  the  true  Parisian  impertinent 
shrug,  which  says  so  much  more  than  any  saucy  Anglo- 
Saxon  word  can  express,  saying :  it  was  preposterous  ever 
to  reason  with  a  woman,  as  she  invariably  made  it  a  mat 
ter  of  feeling ;  then  all  argument  was  at  an  end,  and  in  this 
way  men  were  always  terribly  imposed  upon,  as  they  had 
to  give  up,  even  unconvinced.  He  said  all  this  with  such 
a  droll  air  of  injured  innocence,  that  we  could  not  help 
laughing. 

We  then  talked  of  Chopin,  and  his  six  months'  knowl 
edge  of  him ;  and  he  told  us  many  charming  stories. 
Among  them  was  one  De  Lenz  also  tells. 

"  De  Lenz  and  I  were  pupils  of  Chopin  about  the  same 
time/'  he  said.  "  Meyerbeer,  who  was  then  working  at 
his  '  Prophet,'  interrupted  De  Lenz  one  day,  while  taking 
his  lesson.  At  Paris,  the  persons  one  wishes  most  to  see 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  175 

are  met  with  the  least;  therefore  Chopin  was  delighted 
with  the  visit  of  the  celebrated  maestro.  '  Since  I  find  you 
there/  said  Meyerbeer,  pointing  to  the  piano,  'remain 
there  for  love  of  me.'  Chopin  did  so,  and  played  some 
mazurkas.  The  one  in  C,  Opus  33,  No.  2,  gave  rise  to  some 
lively  discussions  between  the  two  artists ;  Meyerbeer  pre 
tending  that  it  was  in  2-4  time,  instead  of  3.  Chopin  did 
all  that  he  could  to  combat  this  opinion,  for  Moscheles  had 
already  told  him  that  Meyerbeer  had  said  this.  He  played 
and  replayed  the  mazurka :  it  was  the  only  time  I  ever 
saw  his  pale  face  kindle  ;  a  hectic  flush  lighted  up  his 
cheeks  and  eyes.  Meyerbeer  persisted.  '  Give  me  your 
mazurka,'  he  said  at  last;  'I  will  make  a  ballet  of  it,  and 
put  it  in  my  opera ;  you  will  then  see  that  it  is  in  2-4 
time.'  And,"  added  Wolfmaister,  pedantically,  "adhuc 
subjudice  Us  est." 

I  made  Wolfmaister  tell  me  all  he  could  remember  of 
his  intercourse  with  this  poet-artist,  "  who  consecrated  his 
great  talents  to  the  glorification  of  noble  sentiments  in 
works  of  art." 

"  After  our  lessons,"  said  Wolfmaister,  "  Chopin  always 
played  for  us  whatever  music  we  had  brought  with  us,  of 
the  great  masters.  I  remember  one  day  De  Lenz  had  with' 
him  Beethoven's  senate  in  C  sharp  minor,  the  one  gener 
ally  called  '  The  Moonlight  Sonate:'  The  allegretto  of 
this  senate,  Liszt  had  been  playing  for  De  Lenz,  and  he 
asked  Chopin  to  play  it,  in  order  to  see  the  difference 
between  the  two.  There  is  a  suite  of  chords  in  it  which 
Liszt  bound  together  by  his  own  peculiar  style  of  finger 
ing;  when  Chopin  played  it,  he  produced  this  tying 
together  by  the  shades  and  softness  of  his  own  peculiar 
touch.  De  Lenz  played  it  over  after  him,  using  Liszt's 
fingering.  '  This  fingering  is  not  yours  ?'  asked  Chopin, 
in  his  little,  agreeable  voice.  'No,  it  is  Liszt's,'  answered 


176  COMPENSATION; 

De  Lenz.  '  Ah  !'  cried  Chopin  ;  '  Liszt  has  ideas  no  one 
else  would  think  of;'  and  he  sat  down  to  the  piano,  trying 
over  the  fingering,  saying  again  and  again,  with  the  gen 
erous  frankness  of  a  true  genius,  '  This  fingering  of  Liszt 
is  perfect ;  I  shall  make  use  of  it.'  " 

"Tell  Fanny  about  little  Filtsch,"  said  Marie. 

I  had  heard  of  him  before,  and  read  of  him  in  De  Lenz ; 
but  I  was  very  well  pleased  to  hear  Wolfmaister's  reminis 
cences,  so  I  said  nothing,  but  listened  with  interest. 

"  Little  Filtsch  was  a  young  Hungarian,"  said  Wolf- 
maister,  "  who  had  the  most  marvelous  musical  talent  one 
can  imagine.  When  he  was  ten  years  of  age,  he  was  sent 
to  Paris  by  some  rich  patrons,  to  have  his  musical  studies 
directed  by  Liszt  and  Chopin.  They  both  grew  very  fond 
of  him,  and  he  made  such  rapid  progress  as  to  excite  the 
attention  of  the  circle  surrounding  him.  De  Lenz  and  I 
were  sometimes  allowed  to  be  present  during  the  lessons 
he  gave  to  young  Filtsch.  One  day  we  were  there,  when 
the  child,  accompanied  by  Chopin  on  a  second  piano, 
played  his  concerto  in  E  minor.  Chopin's  eyes  glittered 
with  actual  tears.  The  day  was  a  glorious  one  for  little 
Filtsch.  After  he  finished  the  concerto,  Madame  Sand 
caught  him  up  in  her  arms,  and  embraced  him  with  rap 
ture.  Chopin  said  nothing  of  the  gratification  he  felt,  but 
simply  invited  them  all  to  accompany  him  to  Schlesinger's 
music-store.  Chopin,  you  know,  spoke  very  little  ;  words 
seemed  too  heavy  and  inexpressive  for  his  use,  I  suppose 
you  aesthetical  ladies  would  say  ;  nor  was  he  sociable,  or 
apt  to  give  invitations  of  this  sort — therefore  this  one  was 
quite  an  event.  They  all  accompanied  him  mechanically, 
not  knowing  what  to  understand  by  it.  FCAV  Avords  were 
exchanged  during  the  way  up  to  the  Rue  Richelieu. 
When  they  reached  Schlesinger's,  Chopin  asked  for  the 
score  of  Fidelio,  for  the  piano,  and,  putting  it  into  the 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  177 

hands  of  little  Filtsch,  said,  with  his  sweet-toned  voice, 
'  Take  this,  my  child,  as  a  souvenir  of  me  ;  thou  hast  well 
merited  it  to-day.'  The  boy,  who  had  not  expected  any 
thing,  and  who  had  modestly  thought  himself  already  for 
gotten,  was  so  surprised  and  pleased  that  he  burst  into 
tears." 

"  Poor  child !"  I  said.  "  How  soon  after  that  did  he  die, 
Mr.  Wolfmaister  ?" 

"  Not  long ;  he  was  about  fourteen  when  he  died,  poor 
little  fellow !  If  he  had  lived,  he  would  have  been  a  most 
marvelous  artist.  Even  Liszt  said  of  him,  one  evening 
while  listening  to  him,  at  a  soiree  of  the  Comtesse  d'Agoult 
— as  he  played  the  '  Morceau'  of  the  '  Lucia,' — '  When 
that  child  travels,  I  shall  shut  up  shop.'  Chopin  also 
interested  himself  particularly  in  him,  and  entertained  the 
most  sanguine  hopes  of  his  future." 

"But  Chopin  interested  himself  in  each  one  of  his 
pupils,"  said  Marie.  "Just  think,  Fanny,  what  an  in 
valuable  master  he  must  have  been  ;  he  concerned  himself 
as  much  about  the  pursuits,  occupations,  and  mental 
habits  of  a  favorite  eleve,  as  about  his  music." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  interrupted  Wolfmaister ;  "  he  constantly 
bored  me  about  my  reading,  which  annoyed  me  excess 
ively,  for  I  never  cared  much  for  books.  Then  he  would 
get  very  much  irritated  at  me,  because  I  did  nothing  but 
practice,  and  say,  in  his  little,  broken  voice,  '  It  is  quite 
useless,  mon  ami,  to  cultivate  the  fingers,  when  the  mind 
lies  barren.' " 

Marie  and  Wolfmaister  then  recommenced  their  prac 
ticing.  They  played  Mozart's  sonate  in  C ;  and,  after  that, 
a  romance  of  this  composer,  in  E  flat,  to  which  Marie  di 
rected  my  attention,  as  being  the  one  De  Lenz  called  "  the 
ancestress  of  all  the  '  songs  without  words'  "  of  the  pres 
ent  day,  "  the  grandmother  of  all  possible  and  impossible 


178  COMPENSATION; 

nocturnes."  Then  they  played  the  Symphonic  Heroique, 
of  Beethoven.  After  the  last  solemn  chords  of  the 
"  Marche  Funebre"  died  out,  Marie  said, — 

"  I  do  not  like  the  story  some  writers  tell  of  this  sym 
phony.  They  say  that  the  '  Marche  Funebre'  was  added 
to  it  by  Beethoven,  resentfully,  after  he  heard  that  Na 
poleon  had  made  himself  Emperor  of  the  French  ;  that  he 
regarded  his  republican  hero  as  having  gone  down  to  the 
tomb,  and  therefore  sang  his  requiem  instead  of  his  hymn 
of  glory.  I  know  Schindler  says  that  the  Symphonie  was 
commenced  in  1802,  and  not  completed  until  1804  ;  but 
he  also  says  it  was  finished  and  ready,  even  with  the  dedi 
cation,  to  be  sent  to  Paris,  when  Beethoven  heard  the 
news  ;  so,  according  to  that,  the  Marche  was  already  in 
it.  Two  years  ago,  when  I  was  at  Vienna, — where,  you 
know,  Henzler's  orchestra  plays  these  symphonies  su 
perbly, — I  heard  this  Symphonie  Heroique,  with  all  the 
grand  orchestral  effect,  several  times ;  and  every  time  I 
listened,  my  own  musical  reason  rebelled  against  such 
an  erroneous  idea.  Both  Schindler  and  De  Lenz  argue 
rightly.  The  Marche  Funebre  is  an  integral  part  of  the 
whole  symphony,  necessary  to  make  it  complete  ;  indeed, 
intended  from  the  beginning ;  for  a  composition  like  this 
must  be  one  of  great  thought,  not  a  piece  of  inlaid  work, 
or  mosaic.  See,  how  grand  and  calm  is  the  first  move 
ment  !  the  thought  of  death  shows  itself  even  there ;  and 
the  great  tone-poet  has  given  this  poetical  shadow  to  the 
entire  composition ;  the  knowledge  of  the  inevitable  law 
of  humanity  possesses  it.  There  is  in  it  the  solemn  mourn- 
fulness  of  tragic  beauty,  which  is  the  loftiest  point  of  art ; 
the  consciousness  of  the  fatum  of  all  human  grandeur 
breathes  through  the  whole  symphony ;  and  when  we 
arrive  at  the  Marohe  Funebre,  it  is  not  a  song  of  mourn 
ing,  but  a  grand  martial  hymn,  bearing  the  hero,  with 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  H9 

pomp,  to  his  mausoleum.  The  Symphonic  Heroique, 
without  the  Marche  Funebre,  would,  to  my  fancy,  be  im 
perfect — it  would  lose  its  high  poetical  merit." 

I  loved  to  listen  to  Marie,  when  she  was  in  a  raptus, 
like  the  present ;  but  Wolfmaister  sneered,  and  found 
technical  faults,  such  as  men  are  apt  to  find  with  a  woman 
when  she  talks  enthusiastically,  and  said  she  was  rhap 
sodizing. 

"Yes,"  I  cried  out,  laughing,  "now,  Mr.  Wolfmaister> 
you  are  like  Madame  Eperveil.  I  overheard  her  say,  the 
other  day,  that  '  Marie  Merle  rhapsodizes,  and  Mademoi 
selle  Fauvette  is  her  audience ;  and  a  pretty  couple  of 
fools  they  are,  with  their  divine  philosophy.  It's  all 
music  and  high  art  with  them ;  just  as  if  music  and  high 
art  ever  built  a  house,  or  kept  it  after  it  was  built.' " 

Wolfmaister  and  Marie  joined  in  my  laugh,  and  asked 
me  if  I  had  not  been  tempted  to  go  into  the  salon  and 
give  the  old  lady  an  aesthetical  lecture. 

"  I  had  not  the  courage,-"  I  answered ;  "  she  puts  me 
down  effectually,  with  her  cold,  material  words.  I  sat 
silent,  and  listened  patiently  to  her  attacks  on  us  and  our 
pursuits,  feeling. very  sure  she  could  not  have  done  the 
same  thing.  She  would  have  bounced  in  on  any  one,  in  a 
fury,  had  she  overheard  herself  thus  judged  unjustly:  so 
I  comforted  myself  with  talking  at  her,  and  said  to  my 
invisible  opponent,  Newman  Noggs  fashion,  '  Yes,  Tante 
Octavie,  "  music  and  high  art,"  as  you  contemptuously 
say,  not  only  beautify  existence,  but  purify  the  disciple ; 
the  soul  draws  nourishment  from  them,  and  the  intelli 
gence  develops.'  Poor  Tante  Octavie  !  she  fancies  her 
self  far  beyond  us,  and  yet  she  does  not  know  the  first 
word  of  real  life  philosophy." 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Wolfmaister,  who  felt  this  at 
tack  not  a  little, — for  he  often  united  with  Madame  Eper- 


180  COMPENSATION.; 

veil  in  ridiculing  us ;  "I  must  confess,  however,  ladies, — 
much  as  I  have  studied  music,  and  love  it, — your  aes- 
thetical  flights  go  quite  beyond  my  comprehension ;  and 
many  compositions  that  you  elaborate  over  with  your  fine 
talking,  seem  very  confused  and  muddled  to  me." 

I  felt  tempted  to  frighten  the  saucy  master  out  of  his 
assumed  courage,  and  pluck  out  Tante  Octavie's  feathers 
of  sarcasm,  which  he  was  wearing  so  pertly,  pretending 
to  be  angry ;  but  I  was  prevented  by  Marie  saying, — 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  divine  language  in  some  musical 
passages  entirely,  untranslatable ;  it  is  the  spirit,  not  the 
word,  that  speaks  to  the  imagination.  As  soon  as  one 
'attempts  to  analyze  these  feelings,  the  words  sound  ex 
aggerated  to  the  uninitiated,  and  inefficient  to  the  one  who 
comprehends  all  that  is  conveyed  by  the  sounds  of  this 
marvelous  tone-language.  For  example,  there  are  many 
passages  in  Hoffmann,  De  Lenz,  Berlioz,  and  many  other 
writers  on  musical  criticism, — even  Beethoven's  own  con 
versations, — that  sound  what  you  would  call  incompre 
hensible.  How  often  has  Tante  Octavie,  and  you  also, 
Mr.  Wolfmaister,  exclaimed,  '  What  stuff!'  over  a  passage 
in  which  the  author,  in  the  most  conscientious  and 
serious  manner  imaginable,  was  kindly  endeavoring  to 
convey  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  and  the  ear  of  the 
listener,  an  idea  of  the  musical  composition ;  and  I  could 
not  attempt  to  defend  the  composition.  Indeed,  it  seems 
there  is  no  way  of  avoiding  hyperbole,  when  one  attempts 
to  translate  emotions,  some"  expressions  of  music,  into 
words." 

I  felt  disposed  to  punish  Wolfmaister,  and  determined 
he  should  hear  what  I  had  to  say  also :  so  I  continued, — 

"  Words  are  powerless  in  such  explanations ;  and  this 
shows  that  music  is  the  only  true  language  fit  to  express 
some  emotions  of  the  soul.  Such  is  the  inferiority  of  our 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  181 

mortal  nature,  that  our  words  never  express  to  others,  nor 
to  ourselves,  that  which  we  are  feeling  deeply.  Let  the 
warm  tide  of  some  noble  feeling,  some  generous  apprecia 
tion,  some  tender  sympathy,  well  up  in  our  hearts,  and  we 
are  speechless ;  or,  if  we  attempt  to  speak,  we  utter  only 
the  same  words  and  expressions  we  should  use  hourly,  in 
the  most  insignificant  conversations ;  the  hot  tears  rush 
to  our  eyes,  our  pulses  throb,  our  whole  being  palpitates ; 
but  we  rest  dumb.  We  can  produce  the  physical  cries  of 
the  animal,  but  we  cannot — when  experiencing  some  keen 
emotion  of  grief,  or  joy,  or  admiration  of  beauty,  as  seen 
in  works  of  nature  or  art — attain,  by  words,  the  delicate, 
poetical  feeling  we  wish  to  express.  We  cannot  give  the 
cry  of  the  soul.  A  grand,  generous  emotion  does  not  ask 
to  be  materially  represented  by  words ;  these  are  too 
realistic,  and  give  either  an  insignificant  or  a  false  impres 
sion  of  that  which  is  stirring  within  us.  Only  in  music 
do  we  find  the  expression  interpreted  intelligibly." 

Wolfmaister  pursed  up  his  lips,  and  elevated  his  eye 
brows.  Marie  noticed  it;  and  turning  full  on  him,  with 
mock  solemnity,  shook  her  pretty  little  forefinger  playfully 
in  his  face,  and  said, — 

"  Renegade  student  of  the  great  high-priest  Chopin,  re 
member  the  words  of  one  of  the  worthy  disciples  of  your 
great  master:  '  One  arrives  at  art  only  by  roads  barred  to 
the  vulgar :  by  the  road  of  prayer,  of  purity  of  heart ;  by 
confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  the  Eternal,  and  even  in  that 
which  is  incomprehensible.'  v 

Wolfmaister  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Phew !"  he  half 
whistled,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Incomprehensible  !"  And,  turn 
ing  to  the  piano,  he  played  one  of  De  Meyer's  compo 
sitions,  with  admirable  crispness  and  delicacy  of  touch ; 
such  scales,  such  fiorituri!  so  clear,  that  the  sunlight 
danced  brightly  through  every  part,  saying,  as  he  played  : 

16 


182  COMPENSATION; 

"  Now,  this  is  what  I  call  music ;  there  is  no  need  here 
of  any  of  your  aesthetical,  incomprehensible  words,  to  ex 
plain  it,  '  making  confusion  worse  confounded.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Marie  to  me,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  is 
simple  enough,  Heaven  knows ;  that  music  can  be  put 
down  in  plain  nouns  and  verbs,  moods  and  tenses ;  that  is 
all  grammar  rule,  clock-work ;  no  need  of  any  exercise  of 
faith  there." 

"  That's  right,  ladies,"  said  Wolfmaister,  good-naturedly, 
while  he  modulated  into  an  exquisitely  graceful  waltz,  of 
his  own  composition, — delicious  to  listen  to,  but  giving  no 
subject  for  thought ;  suggesting  not  one  poetical  idea  or 
spiritual  experience.  "  Keep  all  your  high  flights  to 
yourselves  ;  for,  I  assure  you,  just  so  soon  as  you  get  up 
into  that  fine  aesthetical  talking,  it  is  incomprehensible  to 
me — and  I  am  glad  it  is.  I  think,  with  Madame  Eperveil, 
that  music  and  high  art  never  built  a  house ;  and  such 
music  as  you  admire  never  makes  the  money  to  buy  one. 
I  am  very  glad  I  never  was  afflicted  with  such  reveries  ; 
if  I  had  been,  I  should  have  turned  out  another  old  Wehr- 
staedt.  I  should  never  have  built  my  pretty  little  cottage, 
or  had  Clarens  lots  to  sell  to  rich  Russians  and  English, 
out  of  my  music-lessons  at  four  Swiss  francs  an  hour." 

The  man  was  right,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  ;  his 
reasoning  was  good,  for  him  and  his  like  ;  and  we  wasted 
no  more  of  what  he  called  our  "  aesthetics"  on  him. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  183 


CHAPTER  XV. 

NEW   ARRIVALS. 

MAY  came,  and  with  it  Tante  Octavie's  great  friends, 
the  Landsnechts.  Octave  and  Lord  S.  did  not  accompany 
them,  as  they  had  spent  the  latter  part  of  the  winter  in 
Paris,  but  were  to  arrive  in  June.  Octave  was  anxiously 
expected,  for  many  reasons  :  Mr.  Serin  hoped  he  would 
conclude  upon  taking  the  head  mastership ;  so  did  his 
family,  especially  his  mother,  who  thought,  if  he  would 
once  settle  himself  at  the  Institution,  he  would  be  out  of 
temptation  ;  and,  to  the  temptations  that  surrounded  him 
out  in  the  gay  world,  she  attributed  all  his  faults.  Clear 
sighted  as  she  was  about  other  things,  her  mother-feeling 
made  her  blind  on  this  subject ;  she  could  not  see  that  he  was 
selfish  and  heartless  ;  she  believed  him  to  be  only  thought 
less  and  indolent,  and  looked  to  a  regular  quiet  life,  and  a 
marriage  with  Marie  Merle,  to  make  him  all  he  should  be. 

The  Merles  wished  to  see  Octave,  to  ask  him  about  poor, 
pretty  Emilie  Michel,  who  had  left  her  home,  in  the  Bas 
Valais,  during  the  winter,  saying  she  had  received  a  fine 
offer  from  a  grand  dress-maker  in  Paris,  which  would  make 
her  fortune,  and,  despite  the  entreaties  of  her  friends,  had 
gone  to  Paris.  Rumor,  that  noisy  demon,  said  that  she  had 
been  seen,  by  some  Sallenches  people  visiting  Paris,  dressed 
very  gayly,  in  a  fine  carriage,  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
with  some  dashing-looking  men  and  women ;  that  they  had 
spoken  to  her,  but  that  she  had  pretended  not  to  know 


184  COMPENSA  TION; 

them,  although  she  had  colored  very  red,  and  showed 
much  confusion.  The  poor  misguided  girl  had  not  many 
near  relatives :  an  old  grandmother,  and  a  maiden  aunt, 
with  whom  she  lived,  and  Michel,  the  "incomparable 
tnari"  who  was  her  uncle,  were  all.  Michel,  of  course, 
gave  himself  no  trouble  about  her;  but  poor  Elise  Michel! 
she  remembered  Emilie  as  her  playmate  in  childhood;  to 
her  this  story  caused  great  sorrow  and  bitter  tears.  Ma 
dame  Michel  was  also  distressed  ;  but  her  gentle  little  step 
daughter's  affliction  grieved  her  more  than  Emilie's  miscon 
duct.  For  Emilie  she  felt  great  contempt  and  anger;  and 
when  away  from  Elise,  she  expressed  herself  with  much 
bitterness  ;  she  did  not  like  to  wound  her  daughter  by  say 
ing  before  her  what  she  said  to  us  :  "  that  she  believed  the 
worst  of  the  worthless  little  minx."  What  wrath  she  dis 
played  !  She  was  like  Rose  Maylie's  chaste  maids  ;  she 
evidently  thought,  as  they  did,  "that  it's  no  use  being 
proper  in  this  world ;"  and  when  speaking  of  the  proba 
bility  of  the  story,  she  seemed  to  dwell  on  the  report  of 
Emilie's  fine  clothes  and  gay  doings  with  a  sort  of  resentful 
feeling,  and  indulged  in  short  sayings  as  expressive  as  the 
one  used  by  the  Dianas  above  alluded  to,  "that  brass  can 
do  better  than  the  gold  what  has  stood  the  fire."  She  had 
not  passed  through  her  forty  years  of  spinsterhood  to  stand 
by  and  see  such  an  outrage  on  feminine  virtue  and  morality 
pass  unscathed ;  and  when  we  represented  to  her  that  poor 
pretty  Emilie  was  as  much  to  be  pitied  as  condemned,  she 
looked  as  horror-stricken  as  if  we  had  also  gone  over  to  the 
immoral  enemy.  We  could  only  appease  her  by  telling  her 
that,  if  the  story  were  true,  Emilie's  future  was  sure  to  be 
as  wretched,  and  her  punishment  as  severe,  as  the  most 
grievous  sin  could  merit ;  then  she  showed  the  greatest 
satisfaction,  and  looked  as  if  she  wished  she  could  see  that 
punishment  meted  out  in  its  severest  and  fullest  measure. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  185 

Our  indignation  was  poured  out  on  Octave,  for  we  did 
believe  that  he  had  enticed  the  pretty,  silly  girl  to  Paris. 
Marie  never  spoke  of  it  to  me ;  but  Tante  Cecile  and  I  in 
dulged  in  as  violent  denunciations  against  him  as  did  poor 
Madame  Michel  against  Emilie. 

The  first  part  of  June  he  came,  accompanied  by  Lord 
S. ;  and,  on  the  first  opportunity  Marie  could  get,  she 
asked  him  frankly  about  Emilie.  They  parted  in  high  anger ; 
for  Octave  wounded  Marie  to  the  quick,  by  such  sneers  and 
impertinent  assumptions  of  ignorance  and  astonishment,  as 
only  a  man  like  Octave  could  employ  to  a  frank,  enthusi 
astic,  guileless  woman.  Had  Marie  consulted  me,  I  should 
have  counseled  her  not  to  appeal  to  Octave  ;  but  she  acted 
in  accordance  with  the  promptings  of  her  innocent  nature  ; 
she  knew  nothing  of  the  cold,  heartless,  licentious  feelings 
that  filled  his  breast;  she  appealed  to  him  as  she  would 
have  done  when  a  little  girl,  to  coax  a  bird's  nest  from 
him,  or  to  save  a  poor  dog  from  cruel  punishment,  or  an 
inoffending  cat  from  drowning.  And  even  when  they 
parted  in  anger,  only  the  tenth  part  of  his  real  character 
beamed  on  her  ;  she  could  not  fully  comprehend  his  hollow, 
polished  wickedness. 

Tante  Cecile  told  me  some  of  the  details  of  the  interview. 
Octave,  she  said,  had  striven  to  evade  the  charge  by  ex 
pressing  a  sneering  surprise  at  a  delicate,  modest  young 
woman's  having  anything  to  do  with  such  matters,  and 
still  more  at  her  selecting  it  as  a  subject  of  conversation 
with  a  gentleman.  A  woman  more  experienced  than  Marie 
would  have  been  baffled  and  humiliated  ;  but  she  was  not; 
she  told  him  there  was  but  one  manly,  honest  course  for 
him  to  take  :  to  say  whether  he  had  or  had  not  anj^thing 
to  do  with  Emilie's  going  to  Paris  ;  and,  whether  he  had 
or  not,  to  assist  them  in  reclaiming  her.  Then  when,  with 
a  mocking  laugh,  he  said  he  hoped  he  should  not  be  made 

16* 


186  COMPENSATION; 

responsible  for  the  peccadilloes  of  all  the  pretty  little  milli 
ner-girls  who  chose  to  go  up  to  Piiris  to  seek  their  fortunes, 
and  that  he  had  fancied  that  she  had  more  self-esteem  than 
to  feel  jealous  of  such  persons,  she  sternly  bade  him  to 
cease  talking  in  that  style  before  her  ;  and  ad  led,  that 
until  he  could  clear  himself  satisfactorily  of  the  charge,  she 
could  not  regard  him  as  a  friend,  and  hoped  he  would  cease 
visiting  at  their  house.  Octave,  bowing  coolly,  left  the 
chateau,  and  commenced  forthwith  the  most  devoted  atten 
tions  to  Miss  Landsnecht,  who,  in  default  of  any  other 
more  available  cavalier,  was  very  willing  to  accept  his  de 
votion.  He  rode,  drove,  walked,  played,  and  sang  with 
her,  took  her  boating — in  fact,  gave  his  whole  time  to 
her. 

Miss  Landsnecht  was  a  tall,  dressy  young  lady,  in  her 
second  season.  She  was  what  is  called  in  society  a  stylish 
distinguee-looking  woman.  She  dressed  in  the  height  of 
the  mode ;  her  crinolines  and  flounces  expanded  in  the 
most  approved  style ;  her  bonnet  was  of  the  smallest  pos 
sible  size,  and  her  head,  by  the  aid  of  rolls,  and  bandeaux, 
and  cushions,  was  of  the  largest  possible  dimensions.  She 
had  been  educated  for  society,  and  lived  for  it ;  she  was  ac 
complished  and  elegant ;  was  a  linguist,  an  artist,  a  musi 
cian, — in  short,  was  everything  that  society  might  require 
of  a  rich  but  plebeian  Miss  Landsnecht,  who  coveted  a  high 
born  titled  man  for  a  husband  from  society,  in  return  for  all 
the  exertions  and  sacrifices  she  made.  But  as  we  had 
nothing  to  do  with  Miss  Landsnecht,  nor  she  with  us, 
there  is  no  need  of  wasting  more  words  on  her. 

Before  we  leave  poor  Emilie,  however,  I  may  as  well  tell 
here  all  I  know  of  her  history,  that  the  sad,  disagreeable 
subject  may  be  dismissed.  We  rarely  heard  of  her  with 
any  certainty.  Once  in  awhile  reports  would  reach  us  of 
her  reputed  life  in  Paris,  where  she  was  said  to  be  leading 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  187 

one  of  the  fastest  and  most  dissipated.  It  was  told  that 
she  drove  handsome  horses,  and  could  be  seen  at  the  opera 
and  play  as  gay  in  jewels  and  costly  laces  as  a  duchess. 
Persons  were  employed  to  seek  her  out ;  but  in  vain ;  she 
eluded  all  inquiries,  and  none  of  us  knew  any  direct  way 
of  approaching  her.  Then,  in  after-years,  came  another 
story,  of  a  poor  miserable  wretch,  worn  down  with  illness 
and  poverty,  being  found  dead  in  some  den  in  Paris ;  and 
we  had  reason  to  believe  that  this  poor  creature  was  Emi- 
lie  Michel ;  and  when  we  heard  it,  we  all  solemnly  prayed, 
with  tears  and  fervent  earnestness,  that  Octave  Bouvreuil 
might  not  have  been  held  answerable  for  the  wretched 
girl's  ruin.  She  has  no  more  to  do  with  this  recital ;  so 
good-by  to  pretty  Emilie  Michel. 

Mr.  Serin,  like  every  one  else,  was  disappointed  in  Mr. 
Octave.  Madame  Eperveil  did  not  deign  to  allude  to  the 
subject  of  the  head  mastership ;  but  it  was  announced  that 
Octave  would,  with  Lord  S.,  accompany  the  Landsnechts 
to  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  in  August,  and  that  the  two  gen 
tlemen  purposed  spending  the  following  winter  in  Naples ; 
this,  of  course,  proved  that  he  had  no  intention  of  be 
coming  head  master  of  Institution  Eperveil,  for  this  year 
at  least.  So  meek  old  Mr.  Serin  submitted  to  the  disap 
pointment  with  as  good  and  patient  a  grace  as  possible. 

Before  the  closing  of  the  Institution  in  June,  for  the 
summer  holiday,  Madame  Eperveil  always  gave  a  grand 
soiree,  which  came  off  about  three  weeks  before  examina 
tion  day,  when  the  distribution  of  honors  and  grades  to 
the  students  took  place.  This  soiree  was  an  announce 
ment  of  the  closing  of  the  gayeties  of  the  Institution  for 
the  season,  and  was  generally  a  very  brilliant  aifair. 
After  this  soiree,  the  students  "turned  in,"  as  Brown,  an 
American  boy,  said,  "  and  polled  hard"  for  the  examina 
tion,  which  never  was  a  gay  affair,  but  one  of  strict  busi- 


188  COMPENSATION; 

ness.  On  the  present  occasion,  Tante  Octavie's  measure 
of  glory  was  to  be  filled  to  the  brim,  thrice  pressed  down, 
and  running  over ;  her  first  of  June  soiree  was  to  be 
honored  by  not  only  the  Landsnechts  and  Lord  S.,  but  a 
Baron  and  Baronne  de  W.,  who  inhabited  a  neighboring 
chateau,  which  they  had  rented  for  the  season.  They 
were  old  Berlin  acquaintances  of  Madame  Eperveil,  and 
the  Baronne  had  known  the  Bouvreuils  in  their  more 
prosperous  days.  The  De  W.'s  had  with  them  a  great 
guest ;  and  this  guest  was  no  less  a  personage  than  a  real 
live  prince,  the  Prince  de  P.,  who  had  graciously  signified 
his  intention  of  honoring  the  soiree  with  his  presence.  To 
be  sure,  the  prince  was  a  valet-made,  not  a  God-made 
man ;  and  looked  like  one  of  those  simpering  wax  heads 
in  a  barber's  window;  still,  he  was  a  prince,  and  Tante 
Oetavie  knew  very  well  the  effect  that  would  be  produced 
by  his  appearance. 

And  now  the  old  lady  condescended  to  express  a  de 
sire  that  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  might  be  induced  to  sing 
at  the  soiree.  Early  in  the  winter,  I  had  refused  to  sing 
at  the  musical  parties  held  in  the  hall,  and  had  given  so 
much  offence  to  Madame  Eperveil,  by  the  refusal,  that  she 
would  never  listen  to  me  when  I  sang  at  our  more  private 
reunions;  and  when  I  "took  coffee"  at  her  house,  as  the 
little  family-parties  were  called,  she  steadily  persisted  in 
never  asking  me  to  sing.  She  considered  my  refusal  the 
result  of  a  silly  affectation,  and  she  made  no  secret  of  her 
opinion  to  others ;  while  to  me  her  manner  was  plain 
enough,  without  words,  to  prove  to  me  what  she  thought. 

The  afternoon  of  the  soiree  I  met  Mr.  Wolfmaister  at 
Marie's,  and  after  they  had  finished  their  rehearsal  of  the 
pieces  to  be  played  in  the  evening,  he  mentioned  Madame 
Eperveil's  wish,  and  urged  it  by  saying,  how  much  singing 
would  add  to  the  interest  of  the  soiree,  as  we  so  rarely 
had  any. 


OB,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  189 

"  I  cannot,  indeed,"  I  replied;  "it  is  not  pique,  I  assure 
you,  neither  is  it  an  affectation  of  timidity.  Singing  is  such 
a  pure  aifair  of  feeling  to  me  that  I  cannot  sing  in  a  crowd. 
I  could  as  soon  rise  up  before  the  assembled  company  and 
tell  them  my  whole  life-history,  or  fall  on  my  knees  and  say 
my  prayers  before  them." 

"  Ah,"  said  Wolfmaister,  shrugging  his  shoulders ; 
"  music  is  a  terrible  agony  to  you  and  Marie,  with  your 
sublime,  poetical  notions,  or  aesthetical,  I  believe  you  like 
to  have  them  called.  Your  '  thirst  after  the  infinite,'  your 
'inner  revealings '  and  'spiritual  elevations,'  are  quite 
awful.  Thank  God,  I  do  not  understand  such  refined 
miseries !  my  feeling  for  music  is  more  practical  and 
positive." 

"  That  it  is,"  cried  Marie ;  "  like  bread  and  cheese, 
sauerkraut  and  lagerbier.  Any  one  might  know  that,  by 
the  way  you  play.  Musicians  like  you,  make  me  think 
of  the  line  in  Holy  Writ,  '  Many  are  called,  but  few  are 
chosen.'  But  you  know  the  maxim,  my  master,  'In  art 
the  great  is  not  for  all,  and  all  are  not  for  the  great.'" 

"  Now,  there  is  the  presumption  of  the  thing,"  he  an 
swered,  with  a  good-natured  laugh;  "however,  I  will  let 
you  have  it  so.  That  being  great  in  art  is  beggarly  busi 
ness,  after  all ;  if  it  is  any  comfort  to  you  to  have  such 
greatness,  pray  take  it — I  want  none  of  it.  You  should 
have  known  old  Wehrstaedt,  of  Geneva — he  was  a  mu 
sician  of  your  great  sort.  What  a  droll  fellow  he  was,  to 
be  sure!" 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Marie  ;  "  God  bless  his  memory  !  I 
wish  I  had  him  here  in  your  place.  Fanny,  Wehrstaedt 
was  one  of  those  who  verily  gave  up  all  and  followed  his 
divine  music." 

"  With  his  old  hat  on,  d  la  quakre,"  said  Wolfmaister, 
laughing  immoderately.  "  I  took  lessons  for  several  years 


190  COMPENSA  TION; 

of  the  crazy  old  fellow,  and  I  never  once  saw  him,  night 
or  day,  without  that  shocking  old  hat,  nailed  tight  to  his 
head." 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed;  "is  it  the  odd  genius  De  Lenz 
speaks  of?" 

"The  very  one,"  said  Marie;  "just  think,  this  heathen 
had  the  priceless  blessing  of  his  lessons,  and  dares  to 
laugh  at  him." 

"  And  is  all  true  De  Lenz  says  of  him  ?" 

"  True  as  gospel,"  replied  Marie. 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  said  Wolfmaister,  his  voice 
hoarse  with  the  laughter  which  the  recollection  of  the 
quaint  old  maestro  had  caused,  and  tears  of  merriment 
actually  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  "  he  knew  only  five 
things:  three  Exercises  of  Cramer,  a  Senate  of  Weber, 
and  the  last  Variation  in  the  Grand  Senate  of  Beethoven. 
Whenever  I  would  find  him  alone,  he  would  be  sitting  at 
his  old  piano,  his  wretched  hat  nailed  tight  to  his  head, 
and  he,  gazing  into  vacancy  with  his  pale-blue  eyes, 
playing  this," — and  Wolfmaister  played  over  the  last 
Variation  in  the  Grand  Senate  in  A  flat. 

"Mr.  Wolfmaister,"  I  asked,  "have  you  ever  read  De 
Lenz's  account  of  this  eccentric  artist?" 

"He! — no  !"  cried  Marie,  impetuously;  "did  you  ever 
know  a  man,  who  talks  as  he  does,  ever  read  anything  be 
yond  the  business  part  of  a  newspaper  ?  If  I  could  know 
of  his  reading  a  book  on  musical  criticism  or  musical  his 
tory;  I  should  have  some  hope  of  meeting  him  hereafter  in 
my  musical  heaven,  where  Wehrstaedt,  I  am  sure,  will  be 
found  as  one  of  those  meek  spirits 

'Who  inherit,  instead  of  motive  powers, 
Impulsions  God  supplied; 
Instead  of  vital  spirit, 
A  clear  informing  beauty; 
Instead  of  creature  duty, 
Submission  calm  as  rest.'" 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  191 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh !"  cried  Wolfmaister,  with  well-affected 
agony,  snatching  up  his  music  and  hat ;  "you  are  getting 
decidedly  too  transcendental  for  me.  I  sincerely  hope, 
Marie,  you  will  descend  from  your  aerial  heights  in  time 
for  our  opening  duo  this  evening."  And  he  rushed  out  of 
the  room,  mattering,  in  a  voice  of  feigned  suffering :  "  Mon 
Dieu  !  just  think  of  quoting  poetry  about  old  Wehrstaedt, 
and  making  an  angel  and  all  that  out  of  him  !  Ciel !  and 
this  is  the  insanity  to  which  their  aesthetics  bring  them ! 
Gare  !  gare  !  ausecours!" 

We  laughed  heartily  at  his  flight,  and  also  at  the  pun 
ishment  we  had  inflicted  on  him,  for  playing  off  on  us 
Tante  Octavie's  harsh,  rude  opinions  ;  for  although  we 
firmly  believed  and  felt  all  we  said  about  music,  but  for 
his  pert  repetitions  of  her  unamiable  speeches,  we  should 
not  have  expressed  ourselves  so  enthusiastically. 

I  sat  for  a  little  while  with  Marie,  listening  to  her  read 
ing  over  some  music  Hofer  had  sent  that  day  for  her  to 
examine ;  then  we  both  went  into  the  little  tower  room, 
and  watched  from  the  window  the  beautiful  sunset ;  and 
leaned  over  the  "Francesca  di  Rimini  and  Paolo,"  across 
which  were  passing  soft,  golden  lights,  thrown  down  from 
the  armorial  bearings  which  the  lunette  of  the  window 
held,  and  flecks  of  brilliant  color  faded,  and  brightened, 
and  faded  again.  Poor  Marie !  though  she  talked  cheer 
fully,  she  looked  worn  and  unhappy.  Her  late  difference 
with  Octave  had  grieved  her  very  much ;  his  conduct 
showed  such  true  meanness  of  character.  So  strange  it 
is,  that  we  may  know  people  for  almost  a  lifetime,  giving 
them  credit  for  points  of  character  which  some  sudden 
flash  of  light  near  the  end  shows  us  were  not  inherent, 
but  only  the  effect  of  an  outward  coating  of  good  breed 
ing,  or  the  still  more  powerful  influence  of  custom  or 
social  opinion.  Marie  had  always  considered  Octave  un- 


192  CO  MP  ENS  A  TION; 

reliable  and  weak,  when  exposed  to  temptation ;  but  that 
he  should  be  so  really  heartless  and  wickedly  selfish,  in 
the  indulgence  of  his  passions,  as  to  ruin  a  young,  igno 
rant  girl,  was  a  sad  revelation  to  her.  Then,  when  she 
showed  her  disgust  and  sorrow  at  such  conduct,  to  have 
him  treat  as  low,  vulgar  jealousy  what  was  a  high-toned 
feeling  of  wounded  love  and  generous  sorrow  for  the  dis 
grace  of  one  who,  though  beneath  her  in  the  social  scale, 
still  was  a  sister  woman,  and  thereby  entitled  to  her  aid 
and  sympathy, — all  this  made  him  fall  lower  and  more 
hopelessly  in  her  opinion.  She  never  noticed  his  atten 
tions  to  Miss  Landsnecht ;  and  when,  by  chance,  we  met 
them  in  society  or  our  walks,  not  a  look  betrayed  what 
ever  she  might  be  suffering ;  she  said  nothing  of  the  affair 
to  Tante  Cecile  nor  me  ;  but  there  was  a  sharpness  in  the 
tone  of  her  voice,  sometimes  an  irritability  and  impatience, 
and  restless,  quick  movements  in  domestic  life,  which 
proved  that  she  did  suffer. 

Tante  Cecile  called  us  to  supper,  and,  after  drinking  a 
cup  of  her  fragrant  black  tea,  whose  odor  was  as  fresh  as 
reseda,  and  eating  enormously  of  a  magnificent  cake,  of 
the  usual  immense  Peilz  size,  and  listening  to  Mr.  Merle 
reading  bits  out  of  yesterday's  Journal  des  Debats,  I  rose 
to  go  home  to  dress  for  the  great  soiree.  Marie  walked 
through  the  court-yard  with  me.  Michel  and  his  wife 
were  there,  arranging  the  lettuce  and  fine  vegetables  for 
the  next  morning  market  at  V.;  the  garden  fruit  looked 
very  pretty,  grouped  together  with  the  good  natural  taste 
of  Madame  Michel  and  her  "incomparable  mart."  It 
would  have  made  a  beautiful  subject  for  a  Flemish  artist; 
the  high  court-yard  walls,  with  the  ruined  chapel  window, 
draped 

"  with  many  a  gay  festoon 
And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 
The  strength  they  borrow  with  the  grace  they  lend." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  193 

Then  the  court-yard  and  old  fountain,  and  the  peasant, 
with  his  tall,  slim  wife,  in  her  scrupulously  neat  dress,  and 
snowy,  fluted-bordered  cap — the  simplest  and  prettiest 
head-dress  of  all  the  European  peasant-women  ;  she,  occu 
pied  in  washing  the  fine  heads  of  lettuce,  and  he,  arranging 
them  with  taste  and  care  in  the  long,  shallow  baskets, 
thinking  undoubtedly  with  pride  of  the  good  effect  they 
would  produce  the  following  morning  in  the  justly  cele 
brated  market  of  V.  Then  the  surrounding  accessions  of 
flower-beds,  filled  with  gay,  flaunting  tulips  and  hyacinths, 
and  the  stands  of  pot-plants  scattered  about,  made  of  the 
place  as  pretty  a  subject  of  that  style  as  an  artist  might 
wish.  Madame  Michel  told  us  that  Tante  Octavie  had 
ordered  some  fine  bouquets  foi?  her  supper-table,  and  in 
vited  us  into  the  house  to  see  them.  Elise  was  hard  at 
work  over  a  brilliant  basketful. 

"Why,  what  is  the  reason  of  this  ?"  I  asked.  "I  thought 
Madame  Eperveil  had  enough  flowers  of  her  own." 

"  Voila,  mademoiselle  I  Henri,  her  gardener,  wishes  to 
have  the  conservatories  lighted  for  the  evening,  and  some 
of  the  tallest  plants  are  to  be  put  in  flat  pyramidal  stands 
in  the  large  windows  of  the  grand  salle  ;  so  Madame  Eper 
veil,  by  that  arrangement,  needed  at  least  a  dozen  more 
bouquets.  Henri  came  to  Michel  for  theni;  and  we  have 
had  to  cut  all  our  flowers  and  Legere's,  too,  at  Montreux. 
Poor  Michel  is  tired  out  with  his  hunt  after  them ;  and 
coming  on  market  eve  makes  it  so  much  harder  for  him, 
poor  fellow !  he  is  so  kind,  he  does  not  mind  trouble  for 
others ;  c'est  impossible  de  dire,  mademoiselle,  toute  la 
bonte  de  cet  homme  !" 

"  How  fine  Tante  Octavie's  rooms  are  going  to  be !"  said 
Marie,  laughing. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  outer  door  opened,  and  a  smart 
footman  entered,  and  asked  for  the  bouquet  Mr.  Octave 

17 


194  COMPENSA  TION; 

Bouvreuil  had  ordered  for  Miss  Landsnecht.  A  superb 
one,  filled  with  the  choicest  flowers,  was  handed  to  him, 
and  he  left. 

"Mother!"  said  the  pretty,  kind  Elise,  "in  that  basket 
by  you  are  the  bouquets  for  Mesdemoiselles  Marie,  Fau- 
vette,  and  Bouvreuil.  I  made  them  first,  mesdemoiselles, 
and  they  have  in  them  the  very  prettiest  flowers." 

The  good  girl  had  undoubtedly  felt  incensed  at  Octave's 
neglect  of  us,  and  particulai'ly  of  Marie,  whom  she  dearly 
loved,  and  had  showed  it  in  this  naive,  kind  way.  We 
thanked  her  heartily  for  her  courtesy ;  and  I  hurried  off 
with  my  two  bouquets,  and  some  gay  flowers  for  my  hair, 
having  stayed  already  too  long  for  the  good  of  my  even 
ing  toilette.  I  found  Helene  and  her  mother  quite  ready, 
sitting  with  Kinnaird  under  the  horse-chestnut  tree,  on  the 
bridge  walk ;  Helene,  beautiful  as  an  angel, 

"  In  her  virginal  white  vesture  gathered  closely  to  her  throat." 

I  hastened  up  to  my  room,  and  found  Dora  in  a  fidget  of 
uneasiness,  with  all  my  "fineries"  spread  out  on  the  table 
and  bed.'  As  we  had  all  agreed  to  go  in  simple,  white 
gowns,  and  my  hair  needed  no  fresh  dressing,  except  to 
arrange  in  it  Elise  Michel's  starry  white  jessamine  and 
brilliant  scarlet  sage,  my  Creole  robe  was  quickly  adjusted 
to  Dora's  perfect  satisfaction,  and  we  started  in  ample 
time. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  195 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

SOIREE   AT   TANTE   OCTAVIE'S. 

* 

WE  reached  the  gate  of  Institution  Eperveil  just  as 
Marie  Merle,  with  Tante  Cecile  and  Mr.  Merle,  came  up. 
Kinnaird  and  Professor  Bouvreuil  were  our  cavaliers,  as 
Octave  was  with  the  Landsnechts,  where  he  and  Lord  S. 
had  been  dining.  Tante  Cecile  walked  with  me  through 
the  hall  and  conservatories,  admiring  the  arrangements, 
for  we  were  an  hour  too  soon.  We  talked,  very  naturally, 
about  Octave. 

"  Madame  Bouvreuil  has  been  remonstrating  with  Ma 
dame  Eperveil,  about  Octave's  going  to  Italy,"  I  said. 
"  She  told  me  yesterday  she  intended  to." 

"Yes,"  replied  Tante  Cecile,  "I  was  in  the  garden  at 
the  time ;  we  were  taking  a  cup  of  coffee  together,  and  I 
heard  the  most  of  the  conversation.  I  fancy  I  understood 
more  of  Tante  Octavie's  reply  than  Madame  Bouvreuil 
did,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  meant  it  for  Marie 
and  me.  Octave  had,  undoubtedly,  given  his  aunt  his  own 
version  of  poor  Emilie's  story." 

"What  did  Madame  Eperveil  say?" 

"Madame  Bouvreuil  begged  Tante  Octavie  to  use  her 
authority,  or  at  least  influence,  to  induce  Octave  to  take 
Mr.  Serin's  position,  and  remain  settled  at  home,  saying 
that  she  feared  the  roving  life  he  led  would  injure  his 
habits.  Madame  Eperveil  replied,  very  coolly,  that  she 
and  Octave  perfectly  understood  each  other.  The  kind  of 


196  COMPENSATION; 

life  he  led  was  agreeable  to  them  both ;  she  did  not  care 
about  his  settling  at  Eperveil  just  now  ;  when  he  should 
be  thirty-five,  would  be  time  enough.  As  to  his  habits, 
they  were  those  of  a  gentleman  ;  she  had  perfect  confidence 
in  him.  There  might  be  some  little  freedoms  about  him, 
such  as  all  young  gentlemen  once  in  awhile  indulge  in ; 
but  she  thought  a  modest,  delicate  silence  would  be  more 
proper  about  them  ;  that  they  would  be  of  no  consequence, 
if  not  made  so  by  ecandal-rnongers.  No  young  man's  life, 
out  in  the  world,  could  bear  the  magnifying  glass  of  stiff, 
starched  prudes." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  indignantly,  "  if  Octave  ever  goes  to 
the  bears,  as  the  naughty  children  did  who  cried  '  bald 
head'  after  Elisha,  I  shall  not  care  one  fig  for  all  that 
Tante  Octavie  may  suffer." 

"  I  think  only  of  the  suffering  he  has  already  caused," 
replied  the  dear  old  lady,  as  she  drew  a  long  sigh  ;  "  one 
disappointment  such  as  Marie  has  had  in  him,  shakes 
faith  in  humanity  terribly.  It  is  sad  to  see  a  young 
heart  so  early  filled  with  bitter  hopelessness  and  sus 
picion." 

I  looked  into  her  sweet,  gentle  face,  and  wondered  what 
old  romance  of  her  youth  had  been  revived  by  her  niece's 
trouble.  An  hour  passed  ;  and  all  the  other  guests  were 
assembled,  before  Tante  Octavie  and  the  grand  quality 
friends  descended  to  the  hall.  I  have  already  mentioned 
that  Madame  Eperveil  liked  to  receive  those  guests  to 
whom  she  wished  to  show  favor,  in  her  own  salon  ;  I 
had  been  honored  in  that  way, — only  once,  however. 
Accordingly,  on  this  occasion,  the  Prince  de  P.,  Baron 
and  Baronne  de  W.,  and  the  Landsnechts,  were  waited 
for  in  solemn,  solitary  state,  by  our  Peilz  empress.  They 
kept  her  waiting  until  ten  o'clock,  although  the  invitation 
cards  had  the  usual  request, — 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  19*7 

"  Madame  Eperveil  begs  her  guests  not  to  be  later 
than  eight  o'clock,  as  at  that  hour  the  music  will  com 
mence." 

How  often  we  had  heard  Tante  Octavie  talk  severely 
about  the  want  of  breeding  shown  by  being  only  ten 
minutes  too  late  in  an  engagement  or  at  a  soiree ! 

"  Better  send  a  regret  at  once,"  she  would  say,  "  than 
be  guilty  of  the  gross  vulgarity  of  keeping  a  company 
waiting  for  you." 

"But  'circumstances  alter  cases,'  and  rank  alters  the 
rules  of  good  breeding,  I  suppose,"  said  Marie,  while  we 
were  commenting  rather  freely  on  the  tardy  guests. 

Wolfmaister  looked  grave ;  he  was  a  thorough  aristo 
crat,  and  Marie's  Swiss  republican  notions  always  shocked 
his  ideas  of  propriety  and  good  taste.  He  affected  not  to 
hear  her,  pulled  down  his  white  vest, — which,  from  its 
excess  of  starch,  seemed  disposed  to  have  an  individu 
ality, — and  then  flew  to  the  music-stand,  and  busied  him 
self  in  sorting  over  the  already  well-arranged  music. 
Marie,  Wolfmaister,  and  I  were  on  the  platform  ;  Professor, 
Madame,  and  Helene  Bouvreuil  were  receiving  and  enter 
taining  the  guests,  which  they  always  did  in  the  absence 
of  Madame  Eperveil ;  and  Tante  Cecile,  Mr.  Merle,  and 
Kinnaird  were  assisting  them. 

The  hall  was  arranged  beautifully ;  the  windows  were 
filled  with  Henri's  finest,  tallest  plants ;  the  benches  had 
been  removed,  and  sofas  and  chairs  were  grouped  together 
in  different  parts  of  the  large  hall,  around  tables,  on  which 
were  baskets  or  bouquets  of  flowers, -^-giving  the  place  the 
appearance  of  a  grand  reception  or  drawing  room.  By 
doing  this,  Tante  Octavie  had  avoided  the  necessity  of 
giving  her  grandee  friends  reserved  places,  which  would 
have  been  very  repugnant  to  the  republican  feelings  of 
her  other  guests. 

17* 


198  COMPENSATION; 

"What  excellent  taste  Tante  Octavie  has  shown!"  I 
said  to  Marie,  on  noticing  this. 

"  Has  she  not  ?"  replied  Marie  ;  "  and  how  well  the  hall 
looks  !  no  stiffness,  and  but  for  this  arrangement,  the  pres 
ence  of  these  strangers  would  have  thrown  a  little  awk 
wardness  over  the  people.  The  conservatories  being 
lighted  up  is  another  happy  idea  ;  it  gives  the  company  a 
chance  to  move  about  and  feel  independent.  Tante  Oc- 
tavie's  friends  will  be  doubly  obliged  to  her  for  this 
pleasant  evening ;  she  has  given  them  a  chance  to  stare 
at  great  people,  which,  republicans  as  we  are,  we  like  im 
mensely,  and  at  the  same  time  be  able  to  meet  them  on  an 
equal  footing."  The  Institution  clock  struck  ten.  "  It  is 
really  too  provoking!"  continued  Marie,  "for  them  to  be 
so  late  ;  we  shall  have  to  leave  out  some  of  our  pieces,  or 
keep  up  the  soiree  until  the  early  hours." 

A  bustle  and  a  buzz  were  heard  ;  the  large  doors  of  the 
hall  were  thrown  open  for  the  accommodation  of  the  dis 
tinguished  guests,  who  entered,  with  Tante  Octavie  at 
their  head,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  Prince  de  P.  She 
seated  her  friends  ;  then,  after  presenting  her  brother  and 
his  family,  and  Mr.  Merle  and  Tante  Cecile,  with  some 
others  who  stood  near,  she  left  them,  and — taking  her 
nephew's  arm — went  graciously  around  to  welcome  her 
other  guests.  How  handsomely  the  old  lady  looked  !  She 
was  dressed  in  perfect  taste.  She  wore  a  rich,  dark-blue 
silk  robe,  with  costly  black  thread  flounces,  and  bertha; 
her  arms  and  neck,  which  were  still  very  fine,  were  only 
shaded  by  a  superb  lace  scarf,  of  the  same  web  and 
pattern  as  the  dress  lace.  Her  beautiful,  rich  blonde  hair 
had  its  heavy  bandeaux  and  braids  ornamented  (not  hid 
den)  by  a  black  thread- lace  barbe,  without  ribbons  or 
flowers,  and  fastened  only  by  two  diamond  star  pins.  She 
moved  about  in  a  gracious,  stately  way,  and  looked  like 


OR,  ALWAYS  A    FUTURE.  199 

an  empress  receiving  her  court.  Much  as  I  fancied  I  dis 
liked  Tante  Octavie, — and  surely  I  had  every  reason  to  do 
so, — there  was  a  nameless  fascination  in  her  appearance 
that  always  attracted  me.  I  loved  to  look  at  her  when 
she  was  in  full  dress,  she  made  such  a  superb  Rubens 
picture.  The  first  sound,  of  her  voice,  however,  always 
dispelled  this  fascination ;  its  dictatorial  tone  and  over 
bearing  insolence  were  insupportable  to  me,  and  I  grew 
rude  and  unnatural  on  the  instant.  She  made  both  Marie 
and  me  brusque  and  contradictory,  as  Madame  Bou- 
vreuil  said ;  we  were  never  ourselves  in  Tante  Octavie's 
presence. 

Octave,  after  a  few  words  from  his  aunt,  left  her,  and 
walked,  with  graceful  nonchalance,  up  the  hall  to  the 
platform  or  stage  ;  and  young  Lord  S.  left  the  Landsnecht 
party  and  joined  him.  As  Octave  walked  toward  us,  I 
could  not  help  observing  how  very  distinguished-looking 
he  was  ;  like  his  aunt,  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with 
himself  and  all  his  surroundings ;  the  world  went  well 
with  him,  and  he  was  content ;  every  selfish  feeling  was 
gratified  ;  and  he  also  knew  that  he  was  making  a  woman, 
who  loved  him  fondly,  miserable — which  pleased  and 
tickled  his  vanity  amazingly,  I  think  I  never  drew  the 
distinction  between  egotism  and  selfishness,  until  I  knew 
Octave  Bouvreuil  and  his  aunt.  He  was  cold,  and  too 
indifferent  to  disturb  his  personal  comfort  in  order  to 
gratify  any  one  ;  then,  if  he  committed  an  injustice  toward 
another,  he  never  acknowledged  it,  and  never  felt  regret, 
but  dismissed  it  from  his  thoughts  as  a  disagreeable  sub 
ject;  and  even  disliked  the  one  he  had  wronged,  if  the 
affair  caused  him  any  annoyance.  Such  characters  are 
surely  hopeless.  But  his  aunt — though  unlovely  and  un- 
amiable — had  more  in  her ;  her  egotism  arose  from  her 
imperious,  overbearing  disposition ;  and  when  her  injus- 


200  COMPENSATION; 

tice  caused  her  to  wrong  another,  though  her  pride  for 
bade  an  acknowledgment  of  the  injury,  you  always  felt 
sure  she  suffered  even  more  than  the  one  she  oppressed, 
for  her  nature  was  naturally  grand  and  noble.  There  was 
a  warm  life-pulse  beating  under  her  husk  of  egotism ;  but 
nothing  ever  showed  the  existence  of  even  a  spark,  in  the 
dry  ashes  of  her  nephew's  selfish  heart. 

They  ascended  the  platform  steps,  and  Lord  S.  was 
presented,  in  a  cool,  wholesale  manner,  to  the  "  artists," 
by  Octave.  This  Lord  S.  was  a  pale,  washed-out-looking 
young  man,  and  seemed  as  if  his  name  should  be  "  Lord 
Verisopht."  He  wore  an  eye-glass,  stuck  in  bis  right  eye, 
and  the  exertions  he  made  to  keep  it  there  gave  a  rigidity 
to  his  face  as  absurd  as  it  was  painful  to  look  at.  He 
seemed  to  be  about  two-and-twenty,  was  making  desper 
ate  attempts  at  raising  an  excessively  blonde  mustache 
audfavoris  or  whiskers,  and  the  only  things  in  the  world 
he  seemed  to  think  of,  were  his  eye-glass,  shirt-collar,  and 
cravat.  The  presence  of  a  real,  royal  prince  appeared  to 
stagger  him  a  little ;  and  I  rather  think  it  was  this  stun 
ning  thing  which  drove  him  among  the  "artists."  I  do 
not  remember  his  saying  a  word  during  the  whole  evening, 
except  some  gasping  "  Oh  !"  or  "Aw  I"  when  he  would 
snatch  convulsively  his  tumbling,  refractory  eye-glass,  or 
settle  his  head  and  neck  carefully  around  in  his  precious 
collar.  Once  or  twice  he  frightened  me  half  out  of  my 
wits,  for  I  thought  he  was  strangling ;  and  more  than 
once  Marie  suggested  the  propriety  of  our  helping  him 
out  of  his  toilet  difficulties. 

"  Madame  Eperveil  thinks,"  said  Octave,  talking  to  all 
of  us,  and  thus  coolly  avoiding  the  necessity  of  addressing 
Marie,  "that  we  had  better  begin  with  the  Beethoven 
trio,  and  leave  out  the  opening  duo  and  quartette  alto 
gether.  " 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  201 

Marie  quietly  removed  her  music  from  the  piano. 
Wolfmaister  looked  a  little  dashed  ;  but  his  reverence  for 
authority,  and  his  happiness  at  having  the  chance  of  play 
ing,  some  time  during  the  evening,  before  such  distin 
guished  individuals,  reconciled  him  in  some  measure  to 
giving  up  the  duo.  Marie  moved  away  from  the  north 
piano,  and  beckoned  to  Wolfmaister  to  take  her  place. 

"This  piano,"  she  said,  "is  better  for  the  trio  accom 
paniment  than  the  other ;  it  is  more  singing,  and  the 
action  more  easy." 

"But  shall  you  not  play  the  piano  part  of  this  trio?" 
asked  Wolfmaister,  almost  bursting  in  his  attempt  at 
generosity. 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  Marie  quietly;  "do  you  not 
see,  by  this  new  arrangement,  that  my  fantaisie  and  sonate 
comes  next,  and  our  other  duo  just  after  ?  I  should  be  too 
fatigued." 

Octave  bit  his  lip  with  vexation,  for  he  was  to  play  the 
violin  part,  and  he  detested  Wolfmaister's  piano  accompa 
niments.  Formerly,  Marie  would  have  remembered  this; 
but  she  was  growing  hard  and  indifferent  to  his  likes  or 
dislikes.  I  felt  glad  to  see  it,  until  the  thought  flashed 
across  me — as  I  saw  his  mouth  settle  into  a  gratified  smile, 
and  his  beautiful  head  toss  with  a  saucy  jerk — that  his 
vanity  was  attributing  her  indifference  to  pique,  and  a 
contemptible  desire  to  vex  and  annoy  him.  How  I  wished 
to  be  a  fairy,  that  I  might  transform  myself  into  a  little 
bee  and  give  him  a  sharp,  stinging  bite !  for  physical  pun 
ishments  are  the  only  kind  such  selfish,  obtuse  natures 
can  feel. 

The  trio  was  the  beautiful  Ghost  trio  I  had  heard  Hein- 
rich  Henzler  play,  the  past  winter ;  but  how  differently  it 
sounded  !  Octave's  part  was  executed  well,  for  sometimes 
he  played  more  like  an  artist  than  an  amateur ;  but  he  was 


202  COMPENSATION; 

not  capable  of  understanding  the  poem  which  the  compo 
sition  contained,  therefore  he  could  not  give  it  its  true  ex 
pression.  Then  Gardner — who,  like  Lord  S.,  was  stunned 
with  the  presence  of  royalty — jerked  his  violoncello  part, 
making  it  sound,  at  times,  as  if  "  all  the  breath  had,"  as 
he  expressed  it,  "clean  gone  out  of  the  instrument;"  and 
Wolfmaister  played  in  his  usual  cold,  orthodox  style — 
"  traditional,"  as  Marie  said.  Octave  knew  that  it  had  not 
gone  off  well ;  he  was  thoroughly  vexed ;  and  as  soon  as 
it  was  finished,  he  left  the  platform,  without  deigning  to 
give  a  word  to  any  of  us. 

.  Then  Marie  placed  herself  at  the  piano,  and  played 
Mozart's  Fantaisie  and  Senate,  in  C.  The  adagio  of  this 
senate  is  expressive  of  the  quiet,  dignified  sorrow  of  a 
heart  suffering  from  neglect,  but  never  fearing  desertion ; 
indeed,  the  whole  passage  expresses,  dramatically,  deep 
grief, — but  not  passionately ;  for  hope  lives,  even  through 
the  solemn  wailing.  But  when  it  reaches  the  allegro, 
then  the  despair  first  breaks  forth.  This  allegro  is  in  3-4 
time,  C  minor,  and  is  full  of  dramatic  points;  it  lasts  but 
three  or  four  minutes,  and  is  like  the  heart-break  attendant 
on  a  lost  hope, — the  expression  of  a  first,  bitter  instant, 
when  the  unworthiness  of,  and  eternal  separation  from, 
one  dearly  loved  and  trusted  in,  first  break  on  the  mind. 
This  passage  just  suited  Marie's  declamatory  moods,  and 
she  always  reminded  me  of  some  great  lyric  actress  giving 
a  scene  from  high  tragedy. 

"  She  plays  that  adagio  entirely  too  fast,"  grumbled  out 
Wolfmaister,  as  deafening  applause  rang  through  the  hall. 
"  Mon  Dieu  !  just  think  of  three  hundred  and  odd  measures 
fired  off  in  about  three  minutes  !" 

•"  No  one  but  you,"  said  Marie,  with  brusque  irritation, 
"  would  think  of  timing  such  a  passage  as  that.  I  cannot 
play  it  slower ;  the  working  up  of  the  composition  brings 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  203 

me  to  it ;  I  need  just  such  a  fierce  rapidity  to  make  the 
expression  complete!" 

A  flutter  and  bustle  around  the  other  piano  announced 
the  preparation  being  made  for  a  new  executante.  Miss 
Landsnecht  came  up  the  platform  steps,  leaning  on  Oc 
tave's  arm ;  looking,  in  her  exaggerated  crinolines  and 
flounces,  like  an  inverted  pen-wiper  or  allumette-holder. 
She  murmured  out,  in  execrable  French,  and  voice 

"  Low  with  fashion,  not  with  feeling  freighted," 

the  timidity  she  felt  at  playing  before  such  "immensely 
clever  artists;"  but  nothing  about  her  showed  that  she 
felt  any  such  becoming  modesty ;  and  after  she  had  un 
gloved,  and  unringed,  and  unbraceleted, — making  more 
preparations  than  a  Clara  Schumann  would  have  needed 
for  the  execution  of  one  of  her  gifted  husband's  most  diffi 
cult  compositions, — she  broke  out  into  a  noisy,  boisterous 
piece,  "all  sound' and  fury,  signifying  nothing;"  a  chaos 
of  chords  and  scales,  pelting  rains  of  octaves,  stormy 
chromatics,  but  not  one  attempt  at  chiar'oscuro,  or  expres 
sion  ;  it  was  a  sort  of  tight-rope  or  circus-riding  perform 
ance,  with  bangs  in  the  base,  and  twitters  in  the  treble, 
and  a  furious  pursuit  of  octaves,  without  one  single 
thought  or  feeling  suggested.  Marie  and  I  had  with 
drawn  from  the  scene  of  action  during  the  heroine's  prepa 
ration  for  combat,  and  we  had  joined  Madame  Bouvreuil, 
who  was  sitting  with  Tante  Cecile,  at  one  of  the  tables, 
near  our  end  of  the  platform. 

"  Now,  Wolfrnaister  will  praise  that  girl's  execrable 
noise ;  see  if  he  does  not,"  said  Marie. 

"  And  all  the  world  will  say  you  and  Fanny  are  envious," 
answered  Madame  Bouvreuil,  with  a  laugh.  "  Pray  go  to 
her,  and  try  to  say  something  civil." 


204  COMPENSATION; 

I  declined  doing  so,  saying  it  would  be  presumptuous 
in  me,  as  I  was  not  an  artist ;  and  Marie  exclaimed, — 

"Never!  Music  is  to  me  what  faith  was  to'tbe  old 
martyrs — I  cannot  lie  about  it.  Now,  pray  look  at  Wolf- 
maister.  O,  my  master,  my  master !  Indeed,  he  makes 
me  nervous.  Just  see  how  he  bustles  around  her,  and 
rubs  his  long-fingered  hands  together,  and  throws  up  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  really  believed  all  the  fibs  he  is  telling!" 

Miss  LandsHecht  had  finished  her  grand  thundering 
piece  ;  and  while  she  was  going  through  the  ceremony  of 
rcgloving,  etc.,  she  was  receiving  Wolfmaister's  praise, 
Tante  Octavie's  gracious  thanks,  and  Octave's  most  win 
ning  whispers,  with  a  bold  attempt  at  shyness  and 
humility. 

The  next  piece  on  the  programme  was  Mozart's  senate, 
in  C,  for  four  hands,  which  was  executed  by  Marie  and 
Wolfmaister.  The  andante  is  cold  and  classic,  and  has 
been  compared  to  a  piece  of  antique  sculpture  ;  so  the  two 
went  on  well  enough  together ;  but  when  they  reached 
the  joyous,  laughing  rondo,  they  did  not  do  so  well,  for 
Wolfmaister  never  worked  it  up  enough  to  please  Marie. 
After  it  was  over,  she  rose  from  the  piano  with  tingling 
cheeks. 

"He  is  so  stupid,  so  dull!"  she  whispered  to  me.  "I 
only  wish  I  could  have  got  the  pedal  in  time,  I  would 
have  made  him  move  faster;  but  he  was  cunning;  he  had 
his  long  foot  on  it  before  I  thought  of  securing  it.  How 
it  is  that  musicians  can  have  heads  and  hands,  and  no 
souls,  is  a  mystery  to  me.  Wolfmaister  never  uses  his 
judgment,  but  binds  himself  to  written  rules ;  just  as  if 
music  can  be  put  upon  paper  in  such  a  way  as  to  express 
all  that  one  means.  The  executant  must  read  with  his 
heart,  with  his  imagination,  as  well  as  with  his  eyes." 

"  See,"  I  said,  a  few  moments  after,  "  the  Prince  de  P. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  205 

is  honoring  Miss  Landsnecht,  and  Mr.  Octave's  occupa 
tion's  gone — he  is  coming  to  us." 

Marie  turned  to  the  piano,  and  commenced  preluding 
softly,  in  order  to  be  occupied  when  Octave  approached 
the  piano.  He  addressed  himself  to  me.  A  few  platitudes 
passed  between  us,  about  the  beauty  of  the  flowers,  the 
fine  arrangement  of  the  hall,  how  well  the  soiree  was  pass 
ing  off,  etc.  etc. 

"  Klavier  Werke,  von  Mozart,''1  repeated  Octave,  me 
chanically,  as  he  turned  the  leaves  of  Wolfmaister's  pre 
cious  Haslinger  edition.  When  he  reached  the  senate  in 
B  flat,  he  said,  with  that  cool  self-possession  he  could 
so  readily  command,  "  Marie,  let  us  shock  Wolfmaister, 
and  mystify  these  people,  by  making  a  baritone  solo  of 
this  andantino,  as  we  did  last  summer." 

He  placed  the  book  before  her,  and,  finding  his  key-note 
himself, — without  waiting  for  the  accompaniment  to  begin, 
— his  rich  baritone  voice  poured  out  this  melody,  so  closely 
associated  with  the  loving  memories  of  their  past;  and  it 
sounded  as  smooth  as  the  note  of  a  horn  on  the  lake  by 
moonlight.  But  Wolfmaister  was  not  shocked,  as  he  used 
to  be,  for  Tante  Octavie  and  the  grand  guests  were  pleased; 
and  when  the  Prince  de  P.  condescended  to  cry  "  Braua" 
and  "  Bene,"  and  even  applaud  almost  hard  enough  to 
burst  his  gloves,  the  accommodating  music-master  shuf 
fled  about,  in  his  animated  rapture,  and,  pitching  his  voice 
in  its  sharpest  full-dress  key,  declared,  "  It  was  really  very 
pretty;  Mr.  Octave  was  so  very  clever." 

Miss  Landsnecht  came  up  to  the  piano,  leaning  on  the 
Prince  de  P.'s  arm,  swaying  to  and  fro,  to  thank  Mr.  Oc 
tave  for  that  "  delishoes  morsow,"  saying,  "  She  was  sure 
she  had  heard  Mario  sing  it  the  last  season,  in  London, 
Pray,  what  was  it?" 

18 


206  COMPENSATION; 

"An  andantino,  from  the  finale  of  II  Sonati,"  answered 
Marie,  looking  Miss  Landsnecht  full  in  the  face.  . 

We,  who  knew  what  the  passage  was,  were  struck  dumb 
with  Marie's  ^aucy  aplomb. 

"Ah  !"  continued  Miss  Landsnecht,  affectedly  humming 
something  she  intended  to  sound  like  it.  "  I  knew  I  was 
right.  I  really  have  the  most  marvelous  memory  and  ear  ; 
they  never  deceive  me." 

The  prince  wagged  his  head  up  and  down,  like  a  Chinese 
mandarin,  and  simpered  out  some  flat  compliment. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Octave  !"  said  Miss  Landsnecht,  "  you  should 
hear  that  love  of  a  Mario  sing  it;  he  is  divine!"  and  she 
threw  up  her  large  blue  eyes,  with  an  expression  that  she 
evidently  thought  might  resemble  a  St.  Cecilia. 

"Probably  you  sing  something  from  the  same  opera?" 
asked  Marie,  in  a  cool,  saucy  tone. 

This  was  almost  too  much  for  my  self-control  to  bear ; 
and  while  Miss  Landsnecht  was  fluttering  every  flounce 
and  flower  and  steel  spring  about  her,  at  the  bare  propo 
sition  of  singing  before  such  a  crowd,  and  the  prince  was 
disturbing  the  expression  of  his  face  in  his  gasping  at 
tempts  at  persuasion,  I  leaned  over  Marie,  as  if  to  fasten 
up  the  shell  and  coral  caul  which  held  her  thick  knot  of 
brown  hair,  and  whispered,  "  Marie,  you  wicked  child  !  be 
silent !  For  Heaven's  sake,  play  something.  Suppose  the 
girl  should  sing,  we  should  disgrace  ourselves  by  laugh 
ing,  and  gain  Tante  Octavie's  everlasting  enmity." 

Marie's  little  hands  fell  sharply  on  the  piano,  and  struck 
some  brilliant  chords,  breaking  right  in  the  midst  of  some 
flat  speech  of  Miss  Landsnecht  to  Octave,  and  startled  the 
poor  prince  to  such  a  degree,  that  he  was  nearly  knocked 
off  his  feet ;  then  she  rolled  away  grandly  into  Liszt's 
magnificent  "  Marche  Hongroise,"  No.  1,  in  which  can  be 
heard  the  trampling  of  horses,  the  ringing  of  sabres  in 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  20? 

their  scabbards,  and  the  rich  coloring  of  the  music  sug 
gests  superbly  caparisoned  steeds,  and  jeweled  sword-hilts, 
and  the  gorgeous  Sclavic  costumes  of  the  cavaliers. 

The  company  soon  after  bade  adieu  to  Madame  Eper- 
veil,  who  was  so  filled  with  satisfaction  at  the  success  of 
her  soiree,  and  the  excellent  good  opinion  she  felt  of  her 
self  and  all  belonging  to  her,  that  she  received  us,  when 
we  came  to  say  good-by  to  her,  with  the  most  winning 
suavity.  She  even  insisted  upon  our  taking  some  supper 
with  her ;  for  although  supper  had  been  served  during  the 
evening  at  various  times,  we,  like  Madame  Eperveil,  had 
been  too  much  occupied  to  take  any.  Tante  Octavie  was 
very  hospitable  at  all  times,  but  particularly  gracious  this 
evening,  and  we  all  seemed  to  forget  our  old  causes  of  dis 
content  against  each  other ;  she  even  offered  me  her  arm, 
and  made  me  accompany  her  into  the  supper-room,  where 
we  all  enjoyed,  with  cheerfulness,  the  very  elegant  enter 
tainment  spread  out  before  us.  It  was,  indeed,  what 
Marie  called  the  "  early  hours"  when  we  bade  Tante  Oc 
tavie  a  hearty  good  night,  for  the  hands  of  the  old  clock 
of  Peilz  pointed  to  three,  as  the  beams  of  the  morning 
moon  shone  on  its  dial-plate.  We  parted  with  merry  good 
nights,  and  with  snatches  of  song,  and  playful  bursts  of 
laughter ;  but  many,  many  times  in  the  coming  year  did 
we  recall  that  first  of  June  soiree  at  Tante  Octavie's. 


208  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE   DISMISSAL. 

AFTER  a  few  weeks,  the  elder  members  of  the  Lands- 
necht  family,  with  Lord  S.  and  Octave,  left  Peilz  for  their 
summer's  gay  journeying ;  intending  to  visit  various  fa 
mous  baths  during  the  season.  Before  they  left,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Landsnecht  expressed  their  great  pleasure  and  satis 
faction  with  Helene's  management  of  the  children,  and 
made  her  an  offer  of  a  large  salary  if  she  would  go  to  Eng 
land  with  them  in  the  autumn  as  governess.  To  Madame 
Eperveil's  surprise,  the  offer  was  refused,  without  an  in 
stant's  hesitation,  by  both  parents  and  daughter.  She  said 
but  little  at  the  time  ;  but  during  the  summer  she  returned 
to  the  subject  so  often,  and  with  such  management,  that 
we  all  observed  that  both  Madame  Bouvreuil  and  Helene 
regarded  the  proposition  more  favorably.  They  both 
looked  very  sad,  and  clung  to  each  other  with  redoubled 
tenderness. 

Madame  Eperveil  represented  to  them  that  she  and  Oc 
tave  had  been  forced  to  have  various  heavy  expenses  for 
outside  purposes  of  the  Institution  ;  that  Octave  did  not 
scruple  to  fulfill  the  duties  of  tutor,  in  order  to  earn  a 
good  salary  ;  she  thought  it  was  a  pity  Helene  should  not 
feel  the  same  interest  in  the  family  welfare.  All  this  she 
threw  out  in  various  forms  during  the  summer.  No  one 
replied  that  as  Octave  and  Madame  Eperveil  were  the  ones 
who  would  be  likely  to  reap  the  most  benefit  from  the  In- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  209 

stitution,  they  were  the  ones  who  should  do  the  most  for 
it;  no  one  asked  what  outside  expenses  Octave  had;  the 
whole  ground  was  left  open  for  Madame  Eperveil  to  expa 
tiate  plausibly  on  the  above  text. 

The  first  of  September,  the  Landsnechts  returned,  and 
urged  more  earnestly  on  Helene  their  proposition,  and  she 
requested  to  have  a  little  time  to  consider,  before  giving  a 
positive  refusal.  This  surprised  me  ;  and  I  expressed  my 
astonishment  one  evening  to  Tante  Cecile,  as  we  were 
walking  together  alone  on  the  road  from  Hauteville. 
Marie  had  left  us  to  accompany  Dora  on  a  hunt  after  the 
seed-tuft  of  the  wild  clematis,  the  feathery  beauty  of  which 
tempted  them  to  clamber  up  quite  a  rugged  vineyard 
bank. 

"  Well,  Octave  spends  a  great  deal  of  money,"  said 
Tante  Cecile ;  "  and  Madame  Eperveil's  style  of  living 
has  been  very  costly  the  past  year  or  so :  this  naturally 
hampers  them  very  much." 

"  But  that  is  no  reason  why  Helene  should  go  away 
from  home,"  I  answered ;  "  and,  moreover,  why  should 
Octave  spend  so  much  money,  if  it  interferes  with  the 
comfort  of  his  family?" 

"  Oh,  Madame  Eperveil  says  his  expenses  are  necessarily 
large,  in  order  to  give  a  reputation  to  the  Institution  ;  that 
he  is  making  himself  extensively  known,  and  thus  im 
proving  the  future  of  the  school." 

"  How  absurd  1"  I  replied ;  "  surely  Madame  Eperveil 
has  too  much  good  sense  to  believe  all  this." 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Tante  Cecile  ;  "  but  do  you  not 
see  ?  She  says  all  this  to  hide  the  truth.  If  she  were  to 
acknowledge  Octave's  extravagances,  or  throw  a  shadow 
of  blame  on  him,  she  has  sense  enough  to  know  that  it 
would  reflect  on  her.  He  has  played  on  her  weakness  for 

18* 


210  COMPENSATION; 

show  and  ostentation,  for  the  society  of  the  rich  and  titled, 
and  I  fancy  she  is  beginning  to  see  this ;  but  she  will  not 
admit  her  error ;  and,  moreover,  she  is  so  blindly  fond  of 
Octave,  that  she  dreads  looking  upon  the  truth  in  regard 
to  him." 

Madame  Eperveil  did  indeed  show,  by  her  testy  man 
ners  and  careworn  face,  that  she  was  annoyed  about  some 
thing.  In  this  volcanic  state  of  the  domestic  atmosphere, 
Mr.  Serin  very  injudiciously  made  a  proposition  to  her, 
which  threw  her  into  a  furious  rage  and  altered  the  whole 
family  arrangements.  He  again  proposed  leaving  her ; 
suggesting,  very  modestly,  that  Mr.  Kinnaird  Graham 
should  take  his  place  until  Mr.  Octave  should  be  ready. 
Now,  I  always  fancied  that  Madame  Eperveil  regarded 
Kinnaird  as  a  sort  of  rival  of  Octave ;  she  was  never 
gracious  to  him,  and  never  treated  him  as  anything  be 
yond  a  common  tutor,  although  his  acquirements,  his 
abilities,  and  his  calm,  dignified  manners  gave  him  a  high 
position  in  the  school.  He  had,  moreover,  written  some 
articles,  on  scientific  subjects,  for  the  Parisian  journals, 
which  had  excited  favorable  attention,  and  procured  for 
him  valuable  acquaintances,  of  much  more  worth  than 
all  Octave's  titled  friends.  Madame  Eperveil  knew  this, 
and  every  step  Kinnaird  made  in  advance  seemed,  to  this 
unjust  and  unreasonable  woman,  an  attack  upon  Octave. 
To  have  him,  then,  proposed  as  bead  master  of  Eperveil, 
was  a  rude  shock  to  her. 

On  the  same  evening,  while  she"  was  full  of  gall  and 
bitterness,  Madame  Bouvreuil  and  I,  being  out  walking, 
concluded  to  call  in  and  take  coffee  with  her.  Unfor 
tunately,  Tante  Cecile  and  Marie  were  also  there.  Madame 
Eperveil  was  talking  of  Mr.  Serin's  proposition,  in  a  cold, 
sneering  tone,  as  if  it  were  something  very  ridiculous 
and  absurd.  To  our  surprise,  Madame  Bouvreuil  replied, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  211 

quietly,  that  she  saw  nothing  absurd  in  it ;  Kinnaird  was 
quite  as  well  fitted  as  Octave  for  such  a  place. 

"  I  have  heard  ray  father  say,"  said  Marie,  "  that  Kin- 
naird's  reputation  is  a  very  enviable  one  for  so  young  a 
man  ;  his  articles  in  the  Journal  des  Debats  command  a 
great  deal  of  attention ;  and  already  they  have  procured 
for  him,  as  we  know,  the  friendship  of  the  celebrated  L., 
whose  works  on  Egypt  we  admire  so  much." 

They  were  as  injudicious  as  Mr.  Serin ;  but  her  gross 
injustice,  and  their  liking  for  Kinnaird,  made  them  forget 
their  usual  prudence  and  tact.  Madame  Eperveil  sat 
stupefied  with  rage.  At  last  she  rose,  and  rang  the  bell 
for  her  maid ;  after  giving  some  trifling  directions,  she 
said,  in  a  quiet  voice  of  suppressed  rage,  as  she  returned 
to  her  seat, — 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  all  this  which  you  have  been 
telling  me  about  Mr.  Graham,  as  it  renders  it  easier  for  me 
to  do  what  I  have  been  wishing  to  do  for  some  time.  Mr. 
Graham  is  a  most  useless  person  to  me,  and  always  has 
been.  I  have  only  retained  him  out  of  regard  to  his 
friendless  position,  or  at  least  what  I  thought  friendless. 
As  he  has  such  powerful  friends  and  excellent  abilities, 
he  had  better  be  employed  by  the  one,  and  make  use  of 
the  other.  In  Institution  Eperveil  he  is  not  needed ;  and 
I  shall  see  that  he  is  speedily  placed  so  that  he  can  em 
ploy  to  his  own  advantage  these  influential  acquaintances 
and  shining  talents." 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject,  and  soon  after 
we  all  rose  to  take  our  leave.  A  hanging,  porcelain  lamp, 
which  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  door  leading  from  the 
salon  into  a  little  adjoining  conservatory,  was  the  only 
light  in  the  room ;  but  it  was  a  moonlight  night,  and  the 
silver  rays  streamed  in  between  the  vines  of  the  balcony, 
and  fell  placidly  down,  on  the  inlaid  floor,  at  Madame 


212  COMPENSATION; 

Eperveil's  feet.  She  only  half  rose  to  say  good  night; 
and,  as  I  leaned  down  to  take  her  hand,  I  saw  that  her 
face  was  deadly  pale,  and  the  touch  of  the  tips  of  her 
fingers,  which  was  all  she  deigned  to  give  me,  threw  a 
chill  over  me,  they  were  so  very  cold. 

Naughty,  imperious  Tante  Octavie !  She  was  in  such 
a  state  of  white  heat,  that  I  could  not  help  feeling  an  in 
definable  dread  of  some  ugly  thing  she  would  do  by  way 
of  venting  her  spite  ;  and  it  came  in  this  shape:  Kinnaird 
Graham  was  dismissed  without  any  warning.  One  morn 
ing,  soon  after  the  little  ill-advised  scene  with  Tante 
Octavie,  when  Kinnaird  went  to  the  college,  as  usual,  to 
meet  his  English  class,  he  found  no  scholars  waiting  for 
him,  and  on  his  desk  a  cold  note  from  Madame  Eperveil, 
telling  him  that  his  services  were  not  needed  any  longer 
in  the  Institution. 

Marie  Merle  and  I,  with  Dora  and  Beau,  had  started 
off  early  that  morning  to  spend  the  day  in  the  Hauteville 
woods ;  Helene  was  to  join  us  in  the  afternoon.  I  remem 
ber  the  day  well ;  it  was  a  sweet,  soft  day  in  the  early 
part  of  September.  An  ocean  of  golden  light  seemed  to 
fill  the  heavens  ;  the  mountain-sides  were  green,  the  vines 
hanging  heavy  with  luscious  fruit,  the  woods  rich  in 
foliage,  and  the  Jura  horizon  misty  and  wavy,  where  one 
could  lose  sight  at  times  of  the  mountain  outline,  in  a 
vague,  dreamy  indistinctness ;  all  objects  united  to  make 
a  harmony  full  of  calm  and  grandeur,  and  my  soul  felt 
deeply  the  influence. 

After  rambling  about  all  the  morning,  down  to  the  de 
serted  farm,  along  the  shady  borders  of  the  quiet,  solitary 
stream  that  breaks  away  from  the  mountains  to  dwell  for 
a  little  while  in  this  lovely  spot,  at  noon  we  clambered  up 
to  the  group  of  rustic  seats  on  our  favorite  hill,  and  ate, 
with  good  appetite  and  pleasant  talk,  the  nice  cold  dinnei 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  213 

Dora'had  brought  in  the  basket  for  us.  Ham  sandwiches 
and  cold  chicken,  a  bottle  of  red  wine,  some  delicious 
Montreux  strawberries,  and  a  few  bunches  of  early- 
ripened  grapes,  made  quite  an  attractive  feast  for  us.  We 
were  very  happy,  though  each  one  of  us  had  one  solitary 
chamber  in  our  hearts,  in  which  lay  the  skeleton,  and  over 
which  we  had  quietly  drawn  the  solemn,  black  drapery  of 
silence.  Yes ;  even  my  loving,  faithful  Darmstadt  girl, 
with  her  good  bright  laugh  and  merry  ways,  had  her 
secret  of  sorrow.  Indeed,  I  think  some  of  us  never 
learn  to  laugh  generously  until  after  we  have  sorrowed 
sorely. 

During  dinner,  Dora  told  us  of  a  beautiful  view  she  had 
seen  in  some  part  of  the  estate  where  we  had  never  been ; 
and  Marie,  after  dinner,  insisted  upon  going  there,  very 
certain  we  could  not  show  her  any  new  place ;  and  yet 
she  could  not  recognize  it  from  Dora's  description,  which, 
it  must  be  confessed,  was  not  very  graphic,  and  would 
have  done  as  well  for  one  pretty  point  of  a  landscape  as 
another.  I  felt  languid,  and  not  at  all  in  an  exploring 
mood  ;  so  I  made  Dora  give  me  my  writing-box  from  the 
basket,  and  concluded  to  "write  letters."  This  "  writing 
of  letters"  was  my  usual  excuse  when  I  wanted  to  work 
upon  my  novel ;  and  it  had  grown  so  common  a  one  as  to 
make  Helene  and  Kinnaird  smile  quietly,  and  provoke 
Marie's  raillery,  whenever  I  used  it ;  for,  like  all  amateur 
authors,  I  was  excessively  shy  about  my  poor  novel. 

After  they  left  me,  a  little  time  was  spent  in  making 
Beau  comfortable ;  for  he  would  not  go  with  them,  a  sud 
den  attack  of  affection  for  me  having  seized  him,  which  I 
was  fool  enough  to  believe  in,  as  usual,  until  I  discovered, 
after  they  left,  that  he  had  stayed  to  keep  guard .  over  a 
piece  of  chicken  in  the  basket ;  so  I  gave  it  to  him,  after 
making  him  look  as  serious  as  an  owl  at  it  for  some  time, 


214  COMPENSATION; 

and  do  a  variety  of  cunning  tricks.  Then  I  unlocked  my 
MS.  book,  unscrewed  my  inkstand,  shifted  my  pen-holder, 
leaned  back  against  the  tree,  looked  down  from  the  hill  on 
to  the  lake,  counted  the  boats,  the  shadows  of  whose  little, 
white  lateen  sails,  reflected  on  the  water  mirror,  seemed 
like  two  butterflies  kissing  each  other ;  then  I  watched  the 
graceful  floating  clouds,  and  their  shadows,  thrown  on  the 
lake  and  hill-sides,  that  moved  so  mysteriously  along  like 
dim  spectres ;  then  I  looked  on  the  opposite  mountains, 
whose  white  summits  had  melted  at  last  before  summer's 
hot  smiles,  and  were  showing  their  grim,  rugged  tops.  I 
did  everything,  in  short,  but  work  at  my  poor  story. 

Beau,  not  liking  the  cool  ground,  jumped  upon  one  of 
the  tree  seats,  over  which  hung  his  faithful  old  friend,  the 
red  shawl ;  this  he  snuffed  at  and  scratched  most  furiously, 
to  make  himself  a  bed,  but  with  poor  success,  for  he  caught 
his  foot  in  the  fringe,  and  tumbled  backward  on  the  ground, 
coming  well-nigh  rolling  down  the  hill ;  this  misadventure 
discomposed  his  little  dog-ship  to  such  a  degree,  that  I 
pushed  my  Margaret  of  Austria  unceremoniously  aside 
and  took  him  up  in  my  lap,  to  soothe  his  offended  dignity, 
and  soon  he  was  sound  asleep.  Then  I  remembered  I  had 
left  at  home  the  memorandum  of  costume  necessary  for  a 
description  in  the  twenty-seventh  chapter  of  my  second 
volume,  which  was  sufficient  excuse  to  my  conscience  for 
not  working ;  so  I  clasped  my  book,  shut  my  pen  and  ink 
stand,  and  leaned  back  comfortably  .against  the  tree,  to 
enjoy  the  ravishing,  living  picture  before  me.  It  was  one 
of  those  scenes  the  painter  would  despair  over ;  for  there 
were  those  varying  shadows,  those  numberless  and  name 
less  nuances  of  color  flitting  over  the  sky,  and  a  hazy  at 
mosphere  that  subdued  and  softened  the  whole.  Music 
can  suggest  such  a  landscape,  but  the  composition  must 
have  sentiment,  and  that  which  gives  a  charm  to  poetry — 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  215 

a  dreamy,  undefined  character.  It  can  only  give  sugges 
tions  to  the  imagination,  not  attempt  vulgar,  tangible  de 
scriptions  ;  and  this  it  can  do,  for  it  has  a  language  of  its 
own,  and  a  coloring.  The  tone-tongue,  the  tone-palette, 
are  widely  different  from  the  word-language  the  poet  uses, 
or  the  tangible  colors  of  the  painter ;  and  the  true  artist 
and  executant  in  music  suggests,  not  describes,  to  the 
cultured  or  gifted  imagination  and  taste,  by  an  adroit  and 
poetical  use  of  this  beautiful  and,  to  some,  mysterious 
knowledge. 

Mingled  with  the  beautiful  landscape  on  that,  to  us, 
memorable  autumn  afternoon,  were  rural  sounds;  some 
cows  were  grazing  in  a  pasture  beneath  me,  on  the  sloping 
hill-side,  and  their  bells  rang  so  slowly  and  soothingly,  that 
I  was  soon  as  sound  asleep  as  my  dog.  I  do  not  know 
how  long  I  had  been  sleeping,  when  I  was  awakened  by 
Beau's  bark.  He  sprang  from  my  lap,  raced  down  the 
bank,  and  gave  a  sign  of  recognition  to  some  one ;  not  re 
ceiving  the  notice  he  thought  he  merited,  he  came  back 
with  a  pooh-pooh  sort  of  air  of  "  Oh !  it  was  nobody,  after 
all !"  and,  jumping  up  into  my  lap,  coiled  himself  cosily 
down,  and  resumed  his  nap.  I  leaned  over,  and  looked 
down  through  the  branches,  and  saw  sitting  on  the  bench 
of  the  terrace  beneath  me,  Helene  and  Kinnaird  Graham. 

"  Where  did  Beau  go  to  ?"  asked  Helene  of  Kinnaird. 

"  He  followed  Marie  and  Mademoiselle  Fauvette  down 
the  stream,"  answered  Kinnaird. 

"No,  he  did  not,"  I  said,  in  a  sleepy  voice;  "he  is  up 
here  with  me."  But  they  were  too  much  occupied  with 
each  other  to  hear  me.  It  was  some  time  before  I  under 
stood  their  conversation, — being  in  a  half-dreamy  state, — 
but  a  strange  tone  in  Kinnaird's  naturally  sweet,  quiet 
voice  startled  me  ;  he  was  angry, — and  angry,  too,  at  his 
lady-love. 


216  COMPENSATION; 

"  It  is  preposterous,"  he  said,  "  this  manner  you  all 
have,  of  yielding  to  your  aunt !  Absurd  !" 

"  Remember,  Kinnaird,"  urged  Helene,  mildly,  "  how 
much  we  owe  to  her." 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  young  man,  springing  up  angrily, 
and  walking  rapidly  to  and  fro  on  the  little  terrace. 

"Heyday  !"  I  thought;  "young  man,  this  is  odd  love- 
making,  to  be  sure !" 

"  Gratitude,  generous  acknowledgment  of  favors  gener 
ously  bestowed,  is  one  thing,"  he  continued  ;  "but  that  is 
quite  different  from  this  childish  slavery  of  obedience  you 
all  observe  toward  her ;  then  the  disgusting  consciousness 
of  this  imaginary  generosity,  that  Madame  Eperveil  shows, 
takes  all  credit  from  her,  "and  makes  your  gratitude  mean 
ness  and  cowardice." 

Helene  remained  silent,  as  she  always  did  when  others 
lost  their  temper.  Kinnaird  stopped  in  his  rapid  walk. 

"Listen  !"  he  said,  standing  in  front  of  her  ; — and  how 
handsome  he  looked :  his  fine,  manly  face  lit  up  with 
the  mingled  tide  of  anger  and  emotion  rushing  through 
him.  "  Listen  !  I  do  not  believe,  Helene  Bouvreuil,  much 
as  you  love  me,  that  you  would  ever  dare  to  marry  me. 
First,  you  would  need  to  have  Madame  Eperveil's  gracious 
consent,  and  there  is  not  one  member  of  your  family  that 
would  dare  to  ask  it ;  then — even  supposing  it  should  be 
asked — if  refused,  I  would  be  whistled  off  without  any 
hesitation."  .• 

Helene  looked  up,  with  a  pretty,  winning  air  of  sly  mer 
riment,  and  said,  half  playfully,  half  pleadingly,  "But,  Kin 
naird,  why  make  our  present  worse  than  it  need  be,  by 
anticipating  trouble  ?  We  are  not  ready  to  face  any  such 
difficulty  yet." 

"  And  if  we  were  ?"  asked  the  young  man,  in  a  deep, 
earnest  tone,  which  must  have  thrilled  through  his  mis- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  217 

tress's  whole  being, — for  it  made  my  little  heart  feel  oddly, 
even  though  I  had  no  right  to  have  any  feeling  about  it. 
He  stooped  down  in  front  of  her,  and,  taking  both  those 
beautiful  hands,  looked  straight  into  her  blushing  face, 
with  his  keen  eyes. 

"  Madame  Eperveil  calls  him  a  polished  stick,"  I  said 
to  myself;  "I  wish  she  could  see  him  now." 

"  Helene,"  he  continued,  taking  from  his  pocket  two  let 
ters,  "  here  are  two  proposals;  before  we  leave  this  place 
you  are  to  decide  which  one  I  shall  accept  One  is  an  as 
sistant  professorship  at  B.  The  salary  is  the  same  your 
father  receives  ;  on  it  we  can  marry.  The  other  is  an  offer 
from  my  friend  L.,  who  has  received  his  appointment  and 
appropriation  for  his  Egyptian  researches,  and  he  wishes 
me  to  accompany  him  to  Egypt,  as  secretary." 

"  Oh,  Kinnaird,  I  must  not  decide — I  cannot !"  said  He 
lene,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Kinnaird  stood  erect,  wounded  to  the  quick.  Helene 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  What  am  I  to  understand  by  this  ?"  he  asked,  in  that 
cold,  steel-like  tone  his  voice  could  so  well  express  in  some 
moods. 

Helene  seemed  to  shrink  into  herself,  and  continued 
weeping  silently,  but  made  no  answer. 

"I  cannot  understand  you,  Helene,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  cruel !"  she  sobbed. 

"  What  is  cruel  ?"  he  exclaimed  fiercely.  "  To  be  offered 
honorable  marriage  by  a  man  you  say  you  love  ?  I  see  no 
cruelty  in  this." 

"No,  no,  Kinnaird,"  answered  the  girl,  striving  hard 
to  control  herself;  "but  my  position  is  so  cruel.  I  am 
just  so  placed,  that  for  a  year  I  cannot  say  yes  or  no  to 
you." 

19 


218  COMPENSATION; 

"And  why?"  asked  the  exasperated  young  man. 

"  Patience,-  Khmaird,  and  listen  to  me." 

"  God  knows  it  requires  the  patience  of  a  saint,"  he 
muttered. 

"  I  have  this  morning  accepted,"  said  Helene,  with 
forced  calmness,  "  the  position  of  governess  in  Mr.  Lands- 
necht's  family.  I  heard  of  your  dismissal,  from  mother, 
and,  thinking  we  were  to  be  separated  in  any  case,  I  con 
cluded  to  no  longer  refuse  so  good  a  salary.  I  go  to 
England  with  them  next  week,  for  all  is  concluded  be 
tween  us." 

"  But,"  said  Kinnaird,  looking  like  ice  and  fire  mingling, 
"you  can,  if  you  please,  break  this  engagement,  by  an 
nouncing  your  approaching  marriage  with  me." 

"Next  year,  Kinnaird,"  urged  the  young  girl,  ner 
vously. 

"  No,  not  next  year — nor  ever !  No,  Helene  Bouvreuil ; 
you  have  not  enough  decision  of  character  to  act  for 
yourself;  nor  have  you  sufficient  love  for  me  to  give  you 
courage  to  face  a  disagreeable  trouble.  Good-by;  God 
bless  you  !"  and  he  rushed  down  the  bank  rapidly. 

"  Kinnaird !"  cried  the  girl,  convulsively.  "  Kinnaird, 
do  not  leave  me.  I  have  not  told  you  all.  Oh,  Kinnaird, 
come  back!" 

But  it  was  too  late — Kinnaird  was  gone.  I  could  no 
longer  endure  the  agony  of  the  poor  child,  so  I  put  the 
lazy  Beau  on  one  side,  and  ran  down  to  her.  "  Darling !"  I 
said,  "  I  have  been  a  listener  to  this  scene,  but  it  was  un 
intentional  ;  I  could  not  well  help  it." 

"  Oh,  is  that  you,  Fanny  Fauvette  ?"  she  cried.  "  I 
am  so  glad  you  are  here !  Is  it  not  dreadful  ?  What  can 
I  do?" 

I  put  my  arms  around  her ;  she  laid  her  head  on  my 
shoulder,  and  cried  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  219 

Beau  was  not  going  to  let  anything  like  that  go  on,  so  he 
came  busily  tripping  down  the  bank,  to  dispute  her  place 
in  my  arms ;  this  diverted  her  thoughts  a  little,  and  the 
violent  sobbing  passing  off,  she  told  me  that  which  she 
had  wished  to  tell  Kinnaird.  They  had  received  a  letter 
from  Octave,  that  morning — that  is,  the  mother  had — and 
he  had  applied  to  her  for  2000f.  He  was  in  debt,  and  did 
not  wish  to  ask  his  aunt,  as  he  had  very  lately  applied  to 
her  for  money,  and  they  did  not  dare  to  ask  Tante  Octavie 
themselves,  after  the  hesitation  shown  about  the  Lands- 
necht  offer.  Just  then,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Landsnecht  called, 
offering  an  increase  of  salary,  raising  the  first  sum  of 
£100  to  £150.  Helene  accepted  it  at  once,  on  condition 
of  having  .the  first  half-year's  salary  paid  in  advance. 
Mr.  Landsnecht  immediately  drew  a  check  for  the  amount, 
which  was  inclosed  to  Octave  the  instant  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Landsnecht  left;  therefore,  Helene  could  not  break  her 
engagement  with  them,  in  order  to  accept  the  unexpected 
offer  of  her  lover. 

Natural  sisterly  delicacy  had  prevented  her  from  telling 
Kinnaird  at  first  what  she  knew  he  would  call  her  brother's 
selfish  extravagance  ;  but  when  her  misery  made  her  over 
come  this  feeling,  his  angry  impetuosity  had  prevented 
her  from  doing  so. 

"  Oh,  never  mind !"  I  said,  consolingly ;  "  to-night,  when 
we  take  our  walk  down  on  the  Point  du  Pays,  after 
supper,  you  can  tell  him  all ;  and  next  year  we  shall  have 
a  merry  wedding." 

We  then  talked  about  her  winter  in  England;  her 
dread  of  the  cold,  proud  family ;  her  hard  work, — for  she 
was  to  give  the  youngest  boy  lessons  in  Latin,  prepare 
the  lessons  of  the  two  other  boys  for  their  tutor,  and 
assist  in  the  duet  practicings  of  Miss  Landsnecht,  besides 
taking  entire  charge  of  the  whole  range  of  studies  of  the 


220  COMPENSATION; 

three  girls.  These  "extras,"  as  we  Yankees  say,  had 
been  added  when  they  proposed  the  increase  of  salary. 

The  sun  was  near  setting,  when  Marie  Merle  and  Dora 
made  their  appearance,  laden  with  branches  of  the  feathery 
seed-tuft  of  the  wild  clematis  and  blood-red  and  yellow 
acacia  leaves. 

"  Do  not  tell  Marie  about  Octave,"  Helene  said,  as  we 
saw  Marie  in  the  distance.  "Heaven  knows,  she  has 
reason  to  think  badly  enough  of  him  already ;  and  the 
only  hope  mother  and  I  have  in  the  future  for  Octave, 
rests  on  the  little  bit  of  love  left  for  him  in  Marie's 
heart." 

I  made  no  reply ;  but  I  thought,  obstinately,  "  If  that 
is  all  the  hope  you  have,  it  is  slight  enough ;  and  what 
ever  I  can  throw  into  the  scale  against  it,  shall  be  given. 
Mai'ie  Merle  shall  never  be  sacrificed  to  Octave  Bou- 
vreuil's  or  any  other  man's  selfishness;  he  may  sacrifice 
mother  and  sister,  if  they  please, — and  father  and  aunt 
into  the  bargain,  for  tally- weight,  —  but  not  my  artist 
darling." 

By  this  time  Helene  had  grown  calm,  and  the  traces  of 
her  weeping  were  accounted  for,  by  my  announcement  of 
her  approaching  departure  for  England,  as  governess  in 
the  Landsnecht  family.  Marie  protested  loudly  against 
it,  and  Dora  looked  ready  to  burst  out  crying;  but  Helene 
shook  her  head  in  sad  silence,  and  we  walked  home  very 
sorrowful.  At  the  Peilz  church  we  found  Mr.  Merle, 
looking  up  at  the  beautiful  old  tower,  draped  with  ivy 
and  the  trumpet-vine,  whose  leaves  were  tinged  blood- 
red.  Helene  and  I  stood  a  few  moments,  admiring  it 
with  him,  and  listening  to  his  gentle,  dreamy  raptures 
over  the  festoons  hanging  around  the  ogive  windows  of 
the  tower ;  then,  bidding  Marie  and  her  father  good  night, 
we  hurried  on  home.  Madame  Bouvreuil  met  us  at  the 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  221 

door ;  she  looked  very  sad  and  tired.  Supper  was  ready 
waiting,  so  we  went  into  the  dining-room,  with  our  man 
tles  and  hats  on  our  arms,  in  order  to  be  all  ready  for 
the  peace-making  walk  on  the  Point  du  Pays.  Professor 
Bouvreuil  had  not  returned  from  his  lessons  at  the 
Landsnechts' ;  thus  Madame,  Helene,  and  I  were  the  only 
ones  at  table.  Helene  watched  the  door,  with  nervous 
anxiety,  for  Kinnaird's  entrance.  At  last,  not  being  able 
to  endure  the  suspense  any  longer,  I  asked, — 

"What  makes  Mr.  Graham  so  late  to-night?" 

"  Helene  has  not  told  you,  then  ?"  replied  Madame 
Bouvreuil. 

Helene  looked  up  inquiringly  at  her  mother.  Madame 
continued:  "Mr.  Graham  has  left  us." 

"  Yes,  I  know  he  is  no  longer  at  Institution  Eperveil," 
I  said. 

"  Oh,  not  only  that,"  answered  Madame  Bouvreuil, 
"but  he  has  left  Peilz." 

"  Left  Peilz  1"  I  cried.     "  Impossible  !" 

Helene  rose  up  silently,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  with 
out  stopping  to  hear  another  word. 

"I  thought  she  knew  it,"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil,  as 
the  door  closed  after  her  daughter.  "  He  told  rne  he  had 
bidden  her  good-by,  and  asked  me  to  say  adieu  to  you  and 
Marie,  for  him.  He  has  received  a  fine  offer  from  his 
friend  L.,  to  be  his  private  secretary ;  they  are  going  on 
that  business  he  spoke  of,  to  Egypt.  He  left  for  Paris 
an  hour  ago." 

I  then  told  Madame  Bouvreuil  all  that  had  taken  place 
at  Hauteville ;  and,  after  grieving  a  little  while  together 
over  the  trouble,  we  separated — Madame  Bouvreuil  to 
join  Helene,  and  I  to  go  to  Dora  and  Beau  for  consolation. 
I  walked  up  and  down  the  gallery,  in  the  soft  light  of  the 
autumn  moon,  hugging  my  dear  little  dog  to  my  lonely 

19* 


222  COMPENSATION; 

heart;  I  was  like  poor  Siebenkiis  ;  I  felt  so  inwardly  sor 
rowing  and  discouraged,  that  I  longed  to  caress  some  out 
ward  thing ;  and  I  listened  to  Marie's  music,  which  came 
in  rich  wafts  on  the  evening  breeze,  from  the  chateau. 
My  own  past,  and  its  sad  memories,  rose  up  before  me,  as 
I  dwelt  on  the  trouble  of  the  family ;  and  my  heart 
seemed  overflowing  with  a  tide  of  bitter  resentment  at 
the  injustice  meted  out  in  this  world  to  the  unoffending, 
and  it  blinded  me  to  the  blessed  harvest  to  be  reaped 
from  such  mortal  wrong.  Dora  leaned  on  the  balcony 
railing,  looking  up  through  the  branches  of  the  acacia- 
tree  at  the  moon,  in  that  state  of  sweet,  vague  German 
dreaminess  so  peculiar  to  her  nation.  I  put  my  hand  on 
her  shoulder:  "What  are  you  dreaming  about,  little 
woman  ?"  I  asked. 

"  My  mother  can  see  that  same  moon,  mademoiselle," 
answered  the  girl,  in  a  clear,  firm  tone,  that  bespoke  most 
perfect  faith  and  trust. 

An  old  nursery  song  of  my  mother's  swept  up  before  my 
memory,  almost  as  if  an  angel  had  sung  it  in  my  ears : — 

"The  moon  looks 

On  many  brooks — 
It  shines  upon  both  great  and  small; 

And  God's  love 

Beams  from  above : 
It  guards  around,  and  leads  us  all." 

I  smothered  my  inward  cries  of  anguish,  and  tried  to 
look  up  at  the  heavens  with  the  same  childlike,  hoping 
faith  of  my  handmaiden.  But  the  memories  of  that  happy 
childhood  recalled  by  the  old  nursery  rhyme ;  of  that 
mother-voice,  soothing  my  childish  griefs  tenderly  to 
sleep ;  then  of  the  lonely  hours  of  unsoothed  sorrow,  after 
death  had  hushed  her  gently  to  her  long  rest, — all  these 
memories  grew  closer  and  tighter  in  their  gripe  around 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  223 

my  heart.  The  lake  waves  dashed  against  the  chateau 
walls ;  Marie's  music  rode  out  in  full,  solemn  grandeur ; 
she  was  playing  that  mysterious  Warum,  of  R.  Schumann, 
whose  persisting  doubts  and  obstinate  questionings  seemed 
to  make  the  same  demand  my  rebellious  heart  was  making. 
I  leaned,  shivering,  against  the. pillar  of  the  gallery,  with 
hot,  dry  eyes ;  but  my  heart  would  weep  over  the  "Living 
Lost,"  and  the  life-desolation  left  by  "the  dead  gone 
before." 


224  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

DEPARTURE. 

Now,  if  I  had  been  Helene  Bouvreuil,  with  such  a 
charming  lover  as  Kinnaird  Graham,  I  should  have  writ 
ten  immediately  to  him  and  explained  the  whole  misun 
derstanding  ;  but  Madame  Bouvreuil  did  not  like  that 
Octave's  disgraceful  conduct  should  be  disclosed. 

"In  a  year,  Kinnaird  will  return,"  she  said;  "then  all 
can  be  explained,  with  less  injury  to  your  brother.  You 
are  both  young,  and  can  wait,  especially  in  such  a  case ; 
moreover,  one's  own  personal  happiness  or  justification  is 
not  what  one  should  seek  in  this  life.  Sacrifices  for  others 
are  far  better  than  a  just  gratification  of  our  own  rights. 
Even  when  these  sacrifices  seem  unjust,  the  good  God 
rights  the  wrong;  the  gain  in  the  end  is  to  our  immortal 
spirits ;  and  if  not,  if  no  gain  results,  a  generous  mind 
feels  easier." 

I  had  to  listen  patiently  to  dear  Madame  Bouvreuil's 
gentle  sermonizing,  for  I  knew  she  not  only  preached,  but 
practiced.  Her  whole  married  life  had  been  passed  under 
the  harrow  of  Madame  Eperveil's  power,  and  harrow  it  was 
truly;  for  the  old  lady  had,  from  girlhood,  so  encouraged 
the  disposition  of  depending  haughtily  on  her  own  judg 
ments,  and  trampling  indifferently  if  not  rudely  on  the 
rights  of  every  one  within  her  reach,  that  domestic  life, 
when  associated  with  her,  was  anything  but  a  blessing. 
And,  yet,  how  she  could  talk  of  personal  independence  ! 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  225 

and  into  what  eloquent  rages  she  would  burst  out,  upon 
some  cowed  tutor  whose  daily  bread  depended  on  his 
position  in  her  employ,  if  he  dared  to  have  or  exercise  an 
opinion  about  the  management  of  the  business  intrusted  to 
him!  She  called  it  always  "  taking  a  liberty  with  her;" 
and  one  of  her  expressions  on  such  occasions  of  wrath 
used  to  amuse  us  all  excessively,  though,  of  course,  we 
never  uttered  a  word  in  her  presence.  It  was  the  same 
speech  that  Haydon,  in  his  autobiography,  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington :  "  The  reason  why  I 
have  a  right  never  to  have  a  liberty  taken  with  me,  is 
because  I  never  take  a  liberty  with  any  one."  This  was 
Tante  Octavie's  pet  conclusion ;  and  just  as  soon  as  she 
would  get  fairly  out  of  hearing,  Marie  or  I  would  ex 
claim,  "No  fear  of  having  liberties  taken  with  one,  if  one 
does  not  meddle  with  others.  Generally,  when  people 
talk  with  such  temper  about  liberties,  and  all  that,  they 
are  consciously  or  unconsciously  interfering  with  the  rights 
of  those  around  them." 

And  this  was  true ;  no  person  could  be  more  interfering 
and  overbearing  than  Tante  Octavie,  and  her  intense  ego 
tism  stood  in  the  way  of  her  seeing  the  immense  injustice 
she  committed  constantly,  not  only  toward  others,  but  to 
her  own  naturally  noble  character ;  for,  much  as  I  in 
wardly  chafed  and  fretted  against  Madame  Eperveil,  I 
could  not  but  see  that  she  had  superb  qualities  of  mind 
and  indefinable  magnetic  attractions,  which  would  have 
made  her  irresistibly  charming  but  for  this  unfortunate 
disposition.  She  did  one  good,  however — she  taught 
patience  to  others ;  she  might  irritate  and  fret  young 
people ;  but,  in  the  end,  she  gave  them  a  philosophy,  in 
regard  to  the  petty  details  of  social  life,  they  never  could 
have  attained  but  for  her  spiritual  microscopic  exaggera 
tion  of  trifles.  The  families  of  the  different  professors 


226  COMPENSATION, 

lived  in  a  state  of  resigned  tranquillity;  the  men  found  so 
much  turmoil  and  tyranny  in  the  atmosphere  surrounding 
Tante  Octavie,  they  were  happy  to  find  peace  in  their  own 
interiors.  How  patiently  the  wives  bore  the  short-comings 
of  their  servants,  because  the  husbands  never  noticed  un 
justly  the  naturally  resulting  short-comings  of  wives! 
That  great  secret  of  the  mystery  of  social  life,  so  little 
understood, — the  necessity  of  yielding  to  and  bearing  with 
sweet,  loving  charity,  unmiugled  with  contempt,  not  only 
the  individual  characteristics,  but  also  the  constitutional 
weaknesses  and  physical  incapabilities  of  others,  acknowl 
edging  generously  the  rights  of  even  children  and  inferiors, 
— every  one  in  Peilz  comprehended  and  practiced  but  Tante 
Octavie  ;  and  yet  she  taught  it  to  them.  But  while  she 
helped  them,  they  injured  her.  A  passage  in  the  life  of 
Currer  Bell,  relative  to  the  peculiar  trials  of  an  only  boy 
in  a  family  of  girls,  altered  a  little,  will  explain  this.  By 
her  family  she  had  been  regarded,  from  her  capability,  as 
one  who  could  and  would  act  a  part  in  life ;  she  was  to  do, 
while  they  were  only  to  be;  and  the  necessity  of  their 
giving  way  to  her  in  some  things,  was  exaggerated  into 
their  giving  way  to  her  in  all,  and  thus  rendering  her 
utterly  and  blindly  selfish. 

Helene  was  so  hurried  in  her  preparations  for  leaving 
with  the  Landsnechts,  and  so  sad  at  parting  with  her 
mother,  that  she  had  little  time  for  dwelling  on  her  love- 
troubles  ;  it  was  not  that  she  was  wanting  in  warmth  of 
heart.  People  are  very  apt  to  imagine  that  such  abnega 
tion  proceeds  from  feebleness  of  feeling ;  and  it  is  only 
when  a  terrible  heart-break,  when  some  sad  scene  of  acute 
physical  suffering,  ensues  once  in  awhile,  that  all  the  effect 
of  the  accumulated  torture,  borne  in  silence  for  years, 
proves  the  existence  of  this  depth  of  feeling.  Poor  Helene ! 
her  love  for  Kinnaird  seemed  to  be  too  great  a  happiness 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  227 

to  indulge  herself  freely  in.  She  had  been  educated  by  her 
mother  in  such  a  strict  idea  of  self-sacrifice,  that  she  would 
have  felt  it  almost  easier  to  have  cut  off  her  right  hand,  for 
the  trifling  benefit  of  another,  than  to  have  occupied  that 
same  beautiful  right  hand  in  any  work  of  pleasure  for  her 
own  enjoyment.  Emile  Souvestre  makes  Leon  say  to  his 
wife  Marcelline,  "  You  women  love  not  only  to  wear  the 
crown  of  thorns,  but  even  to  plunge  the  points  in  your 
bleeding  temples."  So  it  was  sometimes  with  Helene :  her 
conscience  was  quiet  when  sacrificing  self,  uneasy  when 
enjoying  innocent  pleasures,  and,  but  for  her  naturally 
happy  disposition,  healthy  organization,  and  sweet  life 
with  her  mother,  she  would  have  grown  morbid  and  mel 
ancholy.  Then  the  mother's  and  daughter's  anxiety  for 
Octave,  and  their  feeling  of  imaginary  dependence  on 
Madame  Eperveil,  made  them  sensitive.  Marie  and  I, 
when  alone,  fretted  over  this  indefinable  influence  of 
Madame  Eperveil,  and  called  her  hard  names,  and  vowed 
we  would  not  submit  to  such  tyranny — not  we  !  But  my 
declarations  on  this  point  were  growing  fainter ;  I  was 
beginning  to  understand  how  a  strong,  capable  character, 
like  Tante  Octavie's,  could  bear  down  everything  before 
her,  so  I  avoided  her  more  and  more. 

One  evening,  at  sunset,  we  all  met  at  Point  du  Pays ;  it 
was  the  evening  after  the  departure  of  dear  Helene.  Marie 
and  I  had  taken  Madame  Bouvreuil  there,  to  brighten  her 
up.  Tante  Cecile  remained  at  home  to  read  the  Journal 
ties  Debats  aloud  to  her  brother — Mr,  Merle's  greatest  lux 
ury  of  the  day.  The  intercourse  existing  between  this  old 
brother  and  sister  was  exquisitely  touching;  no  husband 
and  wife  could  be  more  devoted  than  they  were  to  each 
other.  While  we  were  enjoying  our  quiet  ramble,  and 
watching  the  passage  of  the  "  Rhone  Number  1,"  the  last 
steamboat  of  the  day,  on  its  way  up  to  Villeneuve,  and 


228  COMPENSATION; 

noticing,  as  if  we  had  never  noticed  it  before,  the  dancing  of 
the  little  row-boats  as  they  fell  in  the  wake  of  the  steamer, 
Madame  Eperveil  came  up  with  old  Mr.  Serin.  Marie  and 
I  bowed  stiffly  to  her,  and  then  tried,  in  the  most  absurd 
manner,  to  ignore  the  old  lady's  presence,  showing  by  that 
how  much  we  felt  it.  We  entered  into  a  high  argument 
about  the  clouds,  of  which  a  bise,  or  north  wind,  just  spring 
ing  up,  and  a  glorious  sunset,  combined  to  make  quite  a 
grand  affair :  they  were  floating  and  rolling  about  beauti 
fully  ;  one  rich  gold  and  purple  one  was  enveloping  Dent 
du  Jaman  like  a  lordly  mantle,  and  the  Rhone  valley  was 
being  filled  with  a  succession  of  vapory  forms,  folding  and 
gathering  together  in  the  sublimest  groups.  Marie  was 
just  at  that  time  quite  enthusiastic  about  Ruskin's  works; 
his  magnificent  word-pictures  had  so  fascinated  her  that 
she  could  not  endure  the  shadow  of  a  difference  from  his 
testy  dictum.  This  is  a  spirit  that  the  first  reading  of  that 
clever  but  opinionative  writer  always  begets.  I  had  it 
myself  years  before,  and  had  survived  it ;  so,  of  course,  it 
was  a  fair  opportunity  for  a  lively  discussion  between  us. 
Very  likely  our  conversation  sounded,  to  a  woman  as  su 
perior  as  Madame  Eperveil  really  was,  a  little  absurd  and 
crude  ;  I  have  no  doubt  it  did  ;  the  very  spirit  which  influ 
enced  us  made  us  unnatural  and  seem  forced  and  affected. 
Then  she  needed  not  to  listen  to  us,  as  we  were  not  ad 
dressing  her.  But,  oh  no  !  she  must  meddle ;  of  course, 
it  was  in  her  nature  so  to  do. 

"Marie  Merle,"  she  burst  out,  "do  stop  this  affectation 
and  exhibition !  You  are  talking  of  what  you  know  nothing 
about,  just  to  show  yourself  off.  I  cannot  conceive  of  a 
greater  piece  of  absurdity  than  for  an  ordinary-minded 
young  woman  like  you,  to  go  off  in  such  an  addle-brained 
manner  as  you  do,  on  these  subjects  you  are  pleased  to 
call  sesthetical.  Descend  from  your  Icarus  wax-wing 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  229 

flights,  child,  and  be  natural!  then  simple  matter-of-fact 
folk  like  us  will  be  able  to  understand  you!" 

We  were  two  irritated,  angry  women,  and  she  was  the 
cause  of  our  anger  ;  therefore,  her  words  were  as  kindling 
to  the  fuel,  and  a  very  disagreeable,  painful  scene  ensued. 
Madame  Bouvreuil  took  Mr.  Serin's  arm  at  the  commence 
ment  of  it,  and  walked  off  out  of  hearing,  so  we  were  left 
uncurbed  even  by  the  gentle  restraint  of  her  presence. 
We  said  some  very  rude  things  to  the  old  lady.  I  remem 
ber  that  we  both  told  her  we  were  tired  of  her  dictation, 
and  implied  that  she  might  tyrannize  over  her  family  if 
they  were  weak  enough  to  permit  it,  but  not  over  us.  She 
deserved  all  we  said,  it  is  true  ;  but  we  put  ourselves  in 
the  wrong  by  shifting  the  issue,  and  in  doing  so,  we  gave 
her  a  chance  to  go  off  in  flying  colors,  which,  of  course, 
she  had  wit  enough  to  avail  herself  of.  Heavens !  how 
the  old  empress  kindled  up  ! 

"  She  was  sick  of  this  sort  of  thing,"  she  said.  "  Whom 
did  she  tyrannize  over  ?  Her  family  affairs  were  her  own 
business.  What  right  had  we  to  interfere  in  them  ?  We 
had  been  taking,  for  some  time  past,  great  liberties  with 
what  was  none  of  our  business.  She  had  discharged 
a  useless,  inefficient,  do-nothing  tutor,  and  provided  her 
own  niece  with  a  situation  where  she  received  an  elegant 
salary — and  here  two  intrusive  young  women,  perfectly 
unconnected  by  blood  with  her  or  hers,  one  a  stranger  and 
a  foreigner  even,  were  presuming  to  sit  in  judgment  on  her 
doings  ;  c'etait  impayable  /" 

"Bravo,  Tante  Octavie!"  I  thought  to  myself;  "you 
have  gained  the  advantage  over  us  now."  So  I  just  did 
what  we  should  have  done  at  first, — held  my  peace,  until 
the  tempest-wrath  of  the  old  dame  had  passed  over.  When 
she  reached  the  end  of  her  speech,  she  looked  as  if  exas- 

20 


230  COMPENSATION; 

perated  with  her  own  arguments,  which  success  quite  put 
her  out  of  breath.  I  took  advantage  of  this  breathing- 
spell,  and,  in  a  low,  quiet  tone,  begged  her  pardon  for  in 
terfering  with  her  family  matters,  saying, — 

"  You  are  quite  right,  madame  ;  I  have  nothing  in  com 
mon  with  you  at  least.  However,  you  must  admit  that 
this  disagreeable  temper  might  have  been  avoided,  Madame 
Eperveil,  if  you  had  not  seen  fit  to  intrude  yourself,  rather 
officiously,  into  a  conversation  with  which  you  had  nothing 
to  do ;  so  I  think  we  can  draw  off  on  even  ground,  as  both 
sides  have  been  in  the  wrong.  Our  wrong  we  acknowledge 
frankly,  and  ask  pardon  for  it ;  of  course,  as  you  arc  our 
senior,  we  do  not  expect  you  to  do  the  same  ;  but  I  sin 
cerely  trust  that  you  will  silently  see  your  error,  and  do 
us  justice  in  your  own  mind.  So  good  evening,  Madame 
Eperveil  !"  And,  taking  Marie's  arm,  I  walked  away, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  toward  the  Chateau  de  Leig- 
nitz. 

"  Great  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Marie  Merle,  as  we  stood 
on  the  broad  top  of  the  breakwater  wall  belonging  to  this 
chateau.  "  If  I  were  Tante  Octavie's  niece  I  should  just 
lay  myself  down  some  night  in  the  waters  of  this  lake,  and 
ask  God,  trustingly,  to  forgive  me  for  going  to  sleep  be 
fore  he  called  me.  I  should  feel  so  discouraged  with  life, 
that  I  would  rather  face  my  heavenly  Father,  after  the 
disobedience  of  suicide,  than  live  in  the  world  under  her 
control." 

We  sat  down  on  the  grand  flight  of  steps  leading  to 
the  upper  terrace  of  the  Leignitz  grounds,  waiting  for 
Madame  Bouvreuil,  whom  we  saw  in  the  distance,  coming 
toward  us,  and  had  a  good,  comforting  cry  together.  She 
came  down  the  steps,  looking  distressed  and  fatigued ; 
and  to  see  her  thus  annoyed,  of  course  added  to  our  vex 
ation. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  231 

"A  pretty  way,  to  be  sure,"  I  cried,  "of  fulfilling  our 
promise  to  Helene ;  we  were  to  keep  her  mother  as  happy 
as  possible." 

Madame  Bouvreuil  tried  to  smile,  and  begged  us  not  to 
think  any  longer  about  the  disagreeable  affair ;  then,  after 
loitering  around  long  enough  to  give  our  "  enraged  lioness 
time  to  reach  her  menagerie,"  as  Marie  saucily  said,  we 
walked, sadly  and  silently  to  our  lonely  home. 

Oh,  how  we  missed  Helene !  Her  pretty  little  expletives 
rang  in  my  ears  for  weeks  after  she  left  us.  Her  sweet 
intonation  of  "  Je  vous  en  prie,"  when  I  would  rebel 
against  some  trifling  but  sweet  act  of  self-yielding  for  my 
comfort ;  her  peculiar  pronunciation  of  various  words,  such 
as  the  musical  lengthening  of  the  first  syllable  of  beaucoup, 
sounded  in  my  memory  as  one  recalls  a  favorite  melody 
associated  with  the  dear,  sad  past.  Then  her  merry  laugh ; 
her  quick,  light  step ;  her  constant  presence  about  the 
house,  making  herself  useful  to  every  one,  unobtrusively, 
— all  this  we  missed.  As  Dora  said,  "  it  was  like  the 
sunshine  gone."  I  was  very  lonely,  for  Marie  Merle  did 
not  take  so  much  pleasure  in  being  with  me  as  formerly. 
She  was  working  very  hard,  it  is  true,  over  some  new 
music,  just  come  from  Paris  and  Vienna,  and  that  was  her 
excuse ;  but  I  could  divine  readily  the  real  reason  ;  she 
had  doubtless  heard  of  Octave's  misdoings,  and  she  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  him  before  me,  knowing  the  contempt 
I  must  feel  for  him.  Not  that  she  was  weakly  mourning 
over  him ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  fast  floating  off  from 
him ;  but  still,  she  had  loved  him,  with  all  the  force  of  her 
warm,  artist  nature ;  she  had  mistrusted,  but  hoped  and 
prayed  for  him  so  many  years ;  and  now,  though  all  was 
over  between  them,  though  they  never  could  be  aught  to 
each  other  in  the  future,  she  could  not  endure  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  any  one  who  she  felt  had  not  the  same  reason 


232  COMPENSATION; 

• 

of  having  once  loved  him,  for  excusing  his  misdoings. 
There  are  times  when  the  society  of  our  best  and  dearest 
friends  is  a  burden  and  a  weight  to  us,  and  this  is  one  of 
those  seasons,  when  their  condemnation  of  another  we 
know  to  be  just, — indeed,  for  them  to  think  otherwise 
would  be  unjust  to  us, — and  yet  it  wounds  and  frets  us. 
It  is  the  feeling  Bryant  so  well  delineates,  in  his  tender, 
touching  little  poem  of  the  "  Living  Lost:" 

"  But  ye  who  for  the  living  lost, 

That  agony  in  secret  bear, 
Who  shall  with  soothing  words  accost 

The  strength  of  your  despair ! 
Grief  for  your  sake,  is  scorn  for  them 
Whom  ye  lament  and  all  condemn, 
And  o'er  the  world  of  spirits  lies 
A  gloom  from  which  ye  turn  your  eyes." 

Instead  of  seeking  me,  as  she  used  to,  after  breakfast, 
and  making  me  come  to  her  for  the  day, — or  joining  me, 
with  Dora  and  Beau,  in  our  mountain  rambles, — I  would 
receive  from  her,  as  excuses  for  her  absence,  little  notes 
full  of  musical  talk,  throbbing  with  feeling ;  although  she 
thought  they  were  analytical,  poor  child !  One  morning 
she  would  write,  "  I  cannot  go  to  Les  Cretes,  or  anywhere 
with  you,  for  some  days  yet.  I  am  getting  up  my  new 
music  for  you,  and  somehow  I  can  study  better,  just  now, 
alone.  Am  I  becoming  a  better  student?  I  am  sure  I 
hope  so."  Just  as  if  I  did  not  know  that  such  rambling 
musical  reading  was  not  study.  No,  it  was  her  poor  heart 
that  needed  to  be  alone ;  for  if  solitude  does  not  give 
strength,  still  it  does  not  wound.  Another  day  her  written 
greeting  said,  "  Some  day,  soon,  I  shall  come  for  you  to 
hear  my  new  musical  acquaintances ;  and  some  of  them 
must  be  your  friends,  through  my  introduction.  I  have 
five  new  compositions  of  your  American  composer,  Gott- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  233 

schalk.  The  one  I  love  best  is  the  Ricordati,  a  ballad, 
written  upon  those  lines  from  Dante's  Inferno, — 

'Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria,' — 

in  G  flat  major,  with  a  sweet  measure;  distant,  and  almost 
like  death  in  some  thoughts ;  bringing  back  regret  and  re 
membrance.  Then  another,  Reflets  du  Passe,  from  a 
passage  in  a  poem  of  Victor  Hugo,  full  of  openly-ex 
pressed  tenderness.  But  one  darling  thing  of  his,  is  a 
little,  dimpled,  coquettish  Hebe  of  a  Valse  Poetique  ;  it  is 
like  what  Liszt  says  of  some  of  Chopin's — it  is  fantastic 
and  joyous,  like  the  playful  stampings  of  a  delicious  little 
teasing  sylph."  Again  she  wrote,  "I  am  devoted  to 
Heller  just  now ;  to  his  tarantelles,  and  wonderful  waltzes, 
so  involved  in  their  working ;  they  suit  me,  for  they  are 
so  full  of  diablerie,  and  no  regret.  It  is  all  a  happy 
present  with  this  joyous  Heller.  He  sports  and  flaunts 
about  in  the  musical  stream,  like  a  flecked,  dancing  trout 
on  a  summer's  day.  But  to  return  to  Gottschalk.  We 
must  talk  him  over  again,  after  you  have  heard  these  new 
things.  Do  you  know,  I  do  not  agree  with  your  opinion 
about  him  ?  His  music  is  not  so  Hebraic  as  tropical ;  it 
suggests  present  and  keen  pleasures  ;  it  is  too  warm  ;  and 
like  all  the  sweets  and  enjoyments  of  that  region  which 
gave  birth  to  his  genius,  it  is  apt  to  pall ;  even  the  sweet, 
luscious  Ricordati  overwhelms  one  with  its  exuberant, 
fond,  sensual  melody;  it  is  not  pure  enough  for  the  stately 
pomegranates  and  bells  of  the  synagogue.  No,  Men 
delssohn  alone  is  Hebraic,  Fanny  Fauvette.  I  compared 
the  two  together  until  after  midnight,  last  night,  and 
could  not  but  be  struck  with  the  difference.  Both  com 
posers  have  rich,  warm  coloring, — expressions  of  exquisite 

20* 


234  COMPENSATION; 

sentimentality;  but  in  one,  it  is  a  present,  vivid  enjoy 
ment  ;  in  the  other,  a  deep,  melodious  echo  of  a  solemn, 
poetical  past.  In  Mendelssohn,  '  Le  passe  y  joue  un  plus 
grand  role  que  le  present ;  qui  dit  passe,  dit  poesie ;  le 
passe  n'est-il  pas  la  jeunesse  de  notre  imagination  ?'  We 
must  argue  this  out  together  some  day,  little  lady." 

I  comforted  myself  for  Marie's  solitary  mood  by  long, 
whole-day  rambles  to  Chatelard  and  Blonay,  and  exploring 
mountain  roads ;  then,  on  cloudy  days,  I  set  to  work 
studying  German  industriously,  with  my  excellent  master ; 
and  sometimes  I  gave  myself  the  headache  over  my  poor 
historical  novel,  my  "  Margaret  of  Austria."  If  Professor 
Bouvreuil  had  not  been  one  of  the  nicest,  kindest,  tender- 
est  men  in  the  world,  Helene's  absence,  united  to  her  keen 
anxiety  about  Octave,  would  have  killed  the  mother.  But 
he  even  left  his  work  on  India,  his  geographical  studies, 
and  his  great  map,  to  occupy  himself  about  her.  How  it 
ever  got  into  his  wise  old  head — so  filled  with  science — 
that  his  wife  might  possibly  miss  her  children,  I  do  not 
know.  God  sent  a  little  angel  to  tell  him,  I  suppose.  He 
used  to  make  her  come  into  his  library,  with  her  basket 
of  sewing,  in  the  evenings.  At  first  they  invited  me,  and 
I  went,  and  sang  ballads  to  amuse  them,  to  the  accom 
paniment  of  the  professor's  little  old  cracked  cabinet 
piano ;  but  after  awhile  I  thought  it  best  to  leave  the 
dear  old  doves  alone,  to  console  each  other ;  so  I  excused 
myself  at  least  five  evenings  out  of  the  seven,  by  pleading 
the  never-failing  occupation  of  "  writing  letters,"  and  left 
them  to  themselves.  Many  a  lonely  evening  I  passed, 
almost  like  those  stern,  solemn  first  ones  after  my  arrival 
in  Peilz,  nearly  two  years  before ;  sitting  by  my  little  salon 
window,  with  Beau  nestled  asleep  cosily  in  my  lap,  and  I 
watching  the  sweet,  cool  moonbeams  peeping  tenderly 
through  the  acacia  branches,  and  the  love-rapture  of  the 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  235 

lake's  palpitating  bosom,  as  in  the  distance  it  broke  into 
quivering  ripples  under  the  full  silvery  light  of  the  cold 
lady  orb; 'while  the  swallows  whirred  through  the  air, 
and  wheeled  around  their  nests  in  the  old  convent  tower ; 
and  once  in  awhile  a  gust  of  melancholy  autumn  wind 
would  bring  me  a  waft  of  Marie's  full,  glorious  music, 
dropping  sometimes  on  my  shoulder  or  arm  a  cold,  dead 
autumn  leaf,  which  would  lie,  in  its  crimson  or  yellow 
glory,  on  my  white  gown,  "beautiful  even  in  death." 


236  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ARRIVAL  OP  AN  OLD  FRIEND. 

JuS!r  as  I  was  beginning  to  feel  impatient  about  this 
awkward  reserve  of  Marie,  and  wondering  how  I  should 
overcome  it,  it  was  broken  in  upon,  in  a  very  natural  man 
ner,  by  the  arrival  of  a  friend  of  mine  from  America,  and 
just  the  one  of  all  others  Marie  wished  most  to  know. 
This  friend  was  a  German  composer,  Gustav  Ehrenherz ; 
of  whom  and  his  sister  I  had  often  talked  to  Marie.  One 
day,  about  a  month  after  Helene's  departure,  Dora  came 
into  my  little  salon,  her  face  beaming  with  delight.  I 
looked  from  my  desk,  and,  as  I  noticed  her  radiant  eyes 
and  smiling  mouth,  I  said :  "  You  have  a  letter  from  your 
mother,  my  child." 

"  Oh,  no,  mademoiselle  !  But  who  do  you  think  has 
come  all  the  way  from  America  to  see  us?"  And  then  she 
quickly  added,  as  she  saw  my  startled  look,  and  cheeks 
paling  with  hopes  and  apprehensions,  to  which  no  definite 
expression  could  be  given :  "  Mr.  Ehrenherz,  mademoiselle ; 
he  is  here,  in  the  passage,  waiting  to  come  in."  • 

In  a  few  minutes  my  friend  was  seated  beside  me,  and 
I,  trembling  with  delight  and  sad  pleasure,  listening  to  all 
the  sweet  information  of  those  dear  ones,  between  whom 
and  myself  the  solemn,  dark  wave  of  separation  and  cir 
cumstances  flowed,  possibly  forever.  And  his  own  reason 
for  coming  to  Europe  was  such  a  happy  romance.  He 
had  been  appointed  musical  director  at  L.  This  post, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  237 

which  had  been  filled  by  Mendelssohn,  was  a  position  at 
once  flattering  and  honorable  for  my  young  maestro  friend, 
and  a  pleasant  reward  to  him  after  the  laborious  years  of 
teaching  and  composing  spent  in  America. 

Of  course,  Marfe  was  quickly  informed  of  his  arrival, 
and  an  invitation,  for  us  all  to  come  and  take  one  of  the 
old-fashioned  suppers  with  them,  at  the  chateau,  was 
brought  immediately  around  by  dear  old  Mr.  Merle  him 
self.  Marie  and  Ehrenherz  grew  quickly  acquainted  ;  for 
he,  though  a  distinguished  artist  and  a  highly-cultivated 
man,  was  modest  and  appreciative,  as  true  artists  always 
are.  Then,  he  had  a  cheerful,  healthy  mind,  and  though  he 
had  quaffed  the  bitter  draught  from  the  goblet  of  sorrow, 
extended  to  all  of  us  born  of  woman,  he  had  drank  the 
absinthe  with  meek,  child-like  patience  and  trust.  He 
had  laid,  in  an  American  grave,  a  gifted  sister,  who  had 
been  to  him  more  than  any  wife  or  friend  could  ever  be. 
An  artist  herself,  a  composer  of  merit,  the  two  had  led 
from  youth  their  artistic  career  together;  they  had  united 
hopes,  united  ambitions,  a  generous  appreciation  of  each 
other's  merits,  and  the  deepest,  tenderest  love  for  one 
another.  Just  as  she  had  reached  a  ripened  womanhood, 
with  her  genius  bringing  forth  its  richest  fruit,  she  sick 
ened  and  died.  I  had  known  her,  enjoyed  her  friendship, 
had  loved,  and  mourned  over  her.  Often  I  had  described 
both  brother  and  sister  to  Marie  Merle,  and,  in  my  letters 
.to  Ehrenherz,  I  had  dwelt  on  Marie  and  her  musical  gifts ; 
thus,  the  two,  when  they  met,  were  more  than  half  ac 
quainted.  So  simple  and  cordial  was  their  greeting,  both 
clasping  each  other's  hands  heartily,  and  calling  each  other 
by  name,  without  the  ceremony  of  introduction,  as  though 
they  had  been  friends  for  years. 

After  doing  full  justice  to  Tante  Cecile's  hospitable 
supper,  and  eating,  to  shameful  excess,  her  delicious  cream- 


238  COMPENSA  TION; 

cakes,  we  walked  out  on  the  terrace.  The  sun  was  just 
setting,  sending  up  its  flame-like  rays  above  the  mountains. 
On  the  opposite  shore,  many  of  the  peaks  of  the  Savoy 
Alps  were  white  with  the  winter's  snows,  for  it  was  late 
in  November.  Les  Corneilles  de  Bise,  back  of  the  Val  du 
Novel,  had  their  peaks  and  sides  covered  with  heavy 
masses  of  snow;  also,  Mont  Chaumeni,  which  caught  the 
golden  crimson  of  the  sunset,  and  looked  dazzlingly  beau 
tiful  ;  but  Mont  le  Blanchard,  from  not  being  so  high,  kept 
its  brown  and  red  autumn  tints,  producing  a  charming 
effect,  when  contrasted  with  its  icy-clad  neighbors.  A 
young  November  moon  hung  over  the  Rhone  valley,  and 
this  same  valley  was  superb;  from  Dents  du  Midi  to  their 
vis  &  vis  Dent  du  Morcles,  the  vale  was  one  mass  of  snow 
mountains ;  Mont  Velan,  Tete  Noire,  and  Mont  Catogne, 
all  wrapped  up  for  the  winter,  and  their  peaks  flaming  in 
the  sunlight  with  brilliant  radiance.  Ehrenherz  enjoyed 
the  scene  with  an  artist's  keen  appreciation ;  then,  as  the 
twilight  darkened,  we  ascended  to  the  salon.  There  the 
Francesca  di  Rimini  group  had  its  share  of  admiration ; 
and  Ehrenherz  sank  on  one  of  the  little  sofas,  drawing  a 
sweet  sigh  of  satisfied  enjoyment,  as  Marie,  at  my  request, 
played  the  Chopin  Adagio.  After  that,  she  played  some 
of  her  new  pieces,  and  I  could  see  very  well  that  she 
pleased  Ehrenherz  amazingly.  He  approached  the  piano, 
saying:  "So  you  hold  to  the  Erard  pianos,  mademoi 
selle  ?" 

Marie  replied,  by  using  Chopin's  own  words :  "  When 
I  play  on  a  piano  of  Erard,  I  find  easily  a  sound  already 
made." 

"Ah,"  answered  Ehrenherz,  "but  that  speech  of  Chopin 
has  a  pendant  which  you,  with  true  woman  cleverness, 
leave  out,  because  it  does  not  suit  your  purpose.  Chopin 
also  said,  you  remember,  '  But  when  I  feel  myself  suffi- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  239 

ciently  strong  to  find  my  own  sound — mon  propre  son  d, 
moi,  I  must  have  a  piano  of  Pleyel.'  But  I  am  very  fond 
of  an  Erard  piano,  also." 

"Ah,  if  I  were  rich  !"•  cried  Marie,  "  I  would  have  one 
of  each ;  one  for  my  week-day  moods,  and  one  for  my  gay 
holiday  ones." 

Day  followed  day,  and  evening  followed  evening,  with 
unconscious  rapidity,  during  this  charming  visit  of  Ehren- 
herz ;  the  days  were  devoted  to  long  walks,  during  which 
Marie  and  I  did  the  honors  of  our  beautiful  Yaudois 
country ;  showing  off  every  lovely  point,  within  walking 
reach,  to  Ehrenherz.  Les  Cretes,  Chatelard,  Hauteville, 
and  even  Blonay,  were  displayed  with  all  the  pride  of 
ownership.  To  Chatelard  terrace  we  took  him  first,  as 
the  place  dearest  to  Marie  and  me,  because  from  it  we 
dated  the  commencement  of  our  friendship.  Then,  in  the 
evenings,  we  would  meet  in  the  chateau  salon,  and  have 
music  together. 

Ehrenherz  had  with  him  his  precious  Straduarius  violin ; 
and,  with  young  Gardner's  assistance,  we  had,  once  or 
twice,  some  of  the  Fesca  Trios,  played  as  I  had  heard 
them  in  those  dear  old  times.  One  evening,  I  made  Ehren 
herz  give  us  the  history  of  his  rare  Straduarius ;  how  it 
had  belonged  to  Paganini,  and  Yieuxtemps  had  bought 
it,  and  sold  it  to  Ehrenherz.  He  made  us  notice  its  nice 
balance,  graceful  outline,  high  finish,  and  the  brilliant  var 
nish.  I  held  the  delicious,  singing  little  thing  in  my  hand, 
and  thought  of  the  hundred  and  fifty  years  that  had  passed 
over  its  little  body  so  graciously;  for  old  Antonius  Stra 
duarius,  of  Cremona,  was  a  scholar  of  the  most  ancient 
Cremonese  maker,  Amati.  While  I  was  looking  at  it,  Mr. 
Merle  said  :  "  Mr.  Ehrenherz,  I  heard  once,  and  even  held 
in  my  hand,  at  Yienna,  one  of  the  famous  Elector  Steiner 
violins." 


240  COMPENSATION; 

"  They  rank  with  the  Cremonese,"  answered  Ehrenherz; 
"  I  once  heard  a  Steiner,  also ;  but  I  was  very  young,  and 
can  scarcely  recall  its  peculiar  tone  ;  however,  I  remember 
it  had  a  remarkably  pure  tone."  . 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Merle;  "  it  had  a  ringing  note,  like 
a  woman's  voice  of  the  mellowest  sound.  The  shape  was 
very  elegant  and  graceful,  highly  finished  in  every  detail, 
and  the  varnish  was  diaphanous,  of  a  rich,  golden  hue. 
Girls,"  added  the  old  gentleman,  turning  to  us,  "the  his 
tory  of  these  Steiner  violins  will  please  you.  Old  Jacob 
Steiner,  who  made  this  famous  violin  I  speak  of,  lost  a 
wife  he  dearly  loved ;  he  mourned  her  so  deeply  that  he 
forsook  the  world  and  retired  to  a  monastery,  like  good 
Fra  Bartolommeo  after  the  death  of  his  friend  Savonarola. 
While  in  the  monastery,  Steiner  made  sixteen  violins  in 
the  most  perfect  manner.  He  sent  one  to  each  of  the 
twelve  electors  of  the  empire,  and  the  remaining  four  to  the 
emperor.  Of  the  whole  sixteen,  only  three  well-authenti 
cated  ones  remain,  and  they  are  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Elector  Steiners." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Merle,"  I  asked,  "  be  so  good  as  to  give  us 
a  date  for  these  famous  violins.  When  did  this  dear, 
loving,  faithful  old  Jacob  live  ?  You  know  I  love  to  have 
facts  classified  clearly  in  my  mind  by  associations." 

"  Oh,  I  can  give  you  a  brave,  historical  association 
with  old  Steiner,"  replied  Mr.  Merle;  "the  emperor  to 
whom  he  sent  the  four  violins  was  Leopold  I.,  the  same 
who  was  emperor  when  Vienna  was  besieged  by  the  Turks 
in  1683,  and  saved  by  the  Poles  under  John  Sobiesky; 
and  this  Leopold,  you  know,  was  grandfather  of  Marie 
Therese,  and  great-grandfather  of  the  luckless  Marie 
Antoinette." 

We  gained  not  only  historical,  but  a  variety  of  other  in 
formation  relating  to  violins,  during  that  evening's  talk. 


OB,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  241 

Ehrenherz  described  to  us  the  build  of  a  violin,  pointing 
out  to  us  its  separate  parts.  Each  violin  contains  fifty- 
eight  different  pieces  ;  and  when  the  purfling  and  tail 
pieces  are  doubled,  there  are  seventy-one  bits  of  wood  in 
the  simple,  smooth-looking  little  instrument.  Then  the 
wood  must  be  of  three  sorts  :  sycamore  for  the  back,  neck, 
sides,  and  circles ;  Tyrolese  soft  red  deal  for  the  belly,  base- 
bar,  sound-post,  and  interior  blocks  ;  ebony  for  the  finger 
board  and  tail-pieces.  The  red  deal  requires  the  greatest 
care  and  judgment  in  selecting ;  it  should  be  cut  only  in 
December  or  January,  and  only  the  part  used  which  has 
been  exposed  to  the  sun. 

"  Then  Amati,  Straduarius,  and  Guarnerius  were  the 
three  great  Cremonese  makers  ?"  asked  Mr.  Merle. 

"Yes,"  answered  Ehrenherz;  "and  they  handed  down 
their  craft  to  each  other.  Guarnerius,  the  last,  and  the 
pupil  of  Straduarius,  though  he  made  superb  instruments, 
was  not  so  even  in  his  make ;  they  were  often  slovenly  in 
their  build.  His  large  violins  were  better  than  his  small 
ones ;  but  they  are  rare.  In  a  large  concert  hall  they 
sound  very  well ;  Paganini's  favorite  violin  was  a  large 
Guarnerius ;  he  bequeathed  it,  when  he  died,  to  the  city 
of  Genoa.  He  owned  two  of  these  Straduarius,  this  one 
and  another,  and  also  an  Amati." 

"  When  I  heard  De  Beriot,"  said  Mr.  Merle,  "  he  played 
on  a  violin  of  an  old  Italian  maker  also,  but  not  a  Cremo 
nese.  I  forget  the  name.  The  tone,  though  not  so  soft 
as  your  lovely  Straduarius,  was  very  melancholy  and 
tender." 

"De  Beriot's  favorite  violin,"  replied  Ehrenberz,  "was 
one  of  Magini,  an  Italian  builder,  of  Brescia,  contempora 
neous  with  Amati." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  name,"  said  Mr.  Merle ;  "  Magini— I 
remember  well  its  pleading,  mournful  tone ;  it  was  as  if 

21 


242  COM  PENS  A  TION; 

the  voice  of  his  wife  had  gone  into  it,  in  order  to  dwell  ever 
near  him." 

Ehrenherz  drew  his  bow  over  his  Straduarius,  and  soft, 
pleading  tones  poured  out  from  it,  which  thrilled  us  to  the 
very  heart ;  our  thoughts  grew  tearful  and  sad,  as  he  im 
provised  from  his  own  memories  of  the  past.  After  awhile, 
Mr.  Merle  and  Tante  Cecile  left  us,  and  he  laid  down  the 
instrument,  and,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  said,  half  re 
proachfully  :  "  Mademoiselle  Merle,  you  have  never  played 
Beethoven  for  me." 

"Because,"  answered  Marie,  "  I  have  not  dared  to." 

"  And  yet,  you  play  Chopin  for  me  without  timidity  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  because  Chopin  has  not  yet  grown  so  trammeled 
with  conceits  and  traditions  of  pedants.  In  another  twenty- 
five  years  one  will  feel  timid  in  playing  Chopin." 

"  What  a  wide  difference  there  is  between  the  music  of 
Havdn,  Mozart,  Beethoven,  Weber,  Mendelssohn,  and 
Chopin  !"  said  Ehrenherz  ;  "  and  each  so  beautiful  in  his 
own  peculiar  genre,  each  one  telling  his  own  tale  of  '  hopes, 
and  fears  that  kindle  hopes  !'  " 

"  De  Lanz,"  I  remarked,  "  that  clever  Russian  writer, 
says  that  '  Haydn's  loves  end  in  hymeneals,  and  Mozart's 
in  festivals.' " 

"  That  is  a  pretty  idea  !"  cried  Marie.  "  Then  Weber's 
end  in  a  wedding  also  ;  but  not  a  wedding  like  Haydn's ; 
it  is  during  the  age  of  chivalry;  and  the  lover  is  a  princely, 
valorous  knight,  and  his  lady-love  some  gentle,  lovely 
young  chatelaine.  Mendelssohn's  loves  are  also  satisfac 
tory,  ending  in  lawful  honorable  marriage — but  more  calm 
and  domestic." 

Ehrenherz  smiled  sadly,  as  he  added  his  tribute  to  our 
fanciful  comparisons :  "  But  Beethoven's  loves,"  he  said, 
"  lead  to  no  such  happiness  ;  they  follow  a  solemn  har- 
monv  which  seems  to  descend  to  a  tomb.  Sometimes 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  243 

they  tell,  indistinctly,  of  a  sad,  mournful  tragedy,  too 
awful  to  give  in  detail,  and  over  which  his  profound  chords 
draw  a  heavy  veil ;  sometimes  a  glorious  funereal  hymn, 
as  if  mourning  for  a  love  that  gave  one  pride  to  dwell 
upon." 

"Chopin's  loves,"  said  Marie,  "lead  also  to  the  tomb, 
but  not  a  hopeful  tomb,  like  Beethoven's  ;  a  wild  cry  of 
despair  rings  out,  as  if  there  was  no  hope  of  meeting  hrre- 
after ;  then  a  sob  of  remorseful  agony,  as  if  the  love  had 
been  for  a  lost  spirit.  Never,  never  do  his  loves  lead  to 
the  belief  that  his  better  nature  had  been  gratified  or  ele 
vated  by  them.  What  wild  cries  of  sorrow  pour  out  in  his 
Nocturnes ;  what  despair  in  his  Scherzos,  and  hopelessness 
in  his  Preludes!  This,  for  example," — and  she  played 
over  the  touching,  beautiful  Prelude  in  D  flat,  through  the 
whole  of  which  one  feels  "the  old  wound,  ever  aching." 
"  What  solemn  tales  of  remorse  they  tell !"  she  continued ; 
"  of  a  high-toned  spirit,  humiliated  and  abased  at  the  dese 
cration  of  that  one  feeling,  which  should  never  be  profaned  ! 
And  then  it  seems  as  if  through  all  the  wailing  there  rises 
gloriously,  from  time  to  time,  a  heavenly  strain,  breathing 
out,  '  Thus  could  my  spirit  have  loved,  had  my  baser  nature 
let  it  soar  aloft.'  Sometimes  the  melody  sounds  like  the 
cry  of  a  Francesca  di  Rimini ;  the  accessories  of  the  com 
position  suggest  the  cloudy  depths  of  an  Inferno,  and 
through  the  gloomy  space  sweep  those  two  weary  souls, 
with  'no  loving  prayer  to  stay  them,'  solemnly  chanting 
their  lost  heaven,  their  bitter  remorse,  and  yet  their  mourn 
ful  happiness  even  in  hell, — 

'  placer  si  forte, 
Che  come  vedi  ancor  non  m'abbandona.' " 

We  both  remained  silent ;  we  could  not  speak,  for  we 
were  so  touched  with  the  enthusiastic  girl's  tone  of  voice 


244  COMPENSATION; 

and  sweet,  young,  solemn  face,  both  expressing  deep  sin 
cere  emotion  and  feeling,  which  is  woman's  most  power 
ful  eloquence.  Her  hands  rambled  over  the  keys  of  the 
piano  as  if  searching  for  some  thought.  Chopin's  wild 
Lament  came  stealing  out  first,  with  its  choking,  proud 
sorrow  ;  then,  after  a  short  preluding  of  chords,  filled  with 
uncertainty,  she  dashed  off  into  one  of  Chopin's  wildest 
Pyrrhic  Polonaises — that  Polonaise  Fantaisie  of  which 
Liszt  gives  this  poetic  analysis : — 

"  In  the  Polonaise  Fantaisie,  which  belongs  already  to 
the  last  period  of  Chopin's  works,  to  those  which  are  over 
charged  with  feverish  anxiety,  we  find  no  trace  of  the 
bold,  bright  pictures  of  the  others  ;  we  hear  no  longer  the 
joyous  steps  of  cavalry  accustomed  to  victory  ;  the  songs 
which  stifle  and  drown  all  forebodings  of  defeat ;  the  words 
which  display  the  boldness  that  sets  well  on  the  victori 
ous.  In  this  an  elegiac  sadness  predominates,  interrupted 
by  startled  movements,  melancholy  smiles,  unexpected 
shocks ;  even  the  repose  is  filled  with  watchful  starts,  as 
if  those  who  lie  in  wait  feared  a  surprise,  and  were  sur 
rounded  on  all  sides,  without  any  hope  breaking  out  from 
the  vast  horizon,  and  to  whose  brains  at  last  despair 
mounts,  like  a  large  draught  of  Cyprus  wine,  which  gives  a 
more  instinctive  rapidity  to  all  their  gestures,  a  keener 
point  to  all  their  words,  a  more  burning  sparkle  to  all  their 
emotions,  and  which  causes  the  mind  to  arrive  at  a  key 
note  of  irritability  bordering  on  delirium." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  245 


CHAPTER   XX. 

MUSIC  TALK. 

THE  next  evening,  when  we  all  assembled  in  the  cha 
teau  salon,  Ehrenherz  said:  "But  truly,  Mademoiselle 
Merle,  I  wish  I  could  hear  you  play  Beethoven." 

Marie,  without  further  urging,  commenced  the  allegro 
of  the  sonate  in  G  major,  Opus  14,  No.  2.  Never  had  it 
sounded  so  bewitching,  and  yet  so  sad  ;  the  half-queru 
lous  and  yet  tearful  remonstrance  of  the  entreating  treble, 
to  the  resistant  base, — that  base  which  one  is  sure  is  a 
very  naughty  person, — all  this  Marie  expressed  with  the 
most  delicate  tenderness,  and  exact  comprehension  of  the 
moaning  of  the  sonate.  She  threw  in  every  varying  ex 
pression  with  great  skill ;  there  was  earnest  gravity,  then 
tenderness  ;  then  came  the  coaxing  entreaties  of  a  patient 
love  that  will  not  be  wearied  out.  In  contrast  with  this, 
she  brought  out  firmly  the  determined  interruptions  of  the 
base ;  at  times,  the  contention  raged  furiously.  At  last 
the  "  resisting  principle,"  as  Beethoven  called  it,  grew 
more  reasonable,  and  the  dialogue  was  carried  on  peace 
fully.  She  expressed  the  delicate  shades  of  gentle  inter 
rogations  and  lingering  pauses;  and  at  the  end  of  the 
sonate,  when  the  "  resisting  principle"  yields,  she  pointed 
the  assent  so  well  that  it  was  clearly  heard  in  the  closing 
measures.  After  the  satisfactory  affirmative  of  the  A,  F, 
and  G  died  out,  Ehrenherz  came  up  to  the  piano,  and 
said, — 

"Be  so  good  as  to  play  the  allegro  over  for  me,  will 
21* 


246  COMPENSA  TION; 

you?"  He  watched  her  hands  closely  all  through  the 
passage ;  as  Marie  finished  the  last  measure,  he  asked : 
"  Where  did  you  get  that  fingering  from  ?" 

" Do  you  like  it?"  was  her  smiling,  playful  reply. 

"  It  is  exquisite ;  it  gives  the  exact  expression,"  he 
said. 

"It  is  Chopin's,"  she  answered.  "You  will  find  it  in 
De  Lenz  ;  and  Wolfmaister,  who  taught  me  the  piano, 
was  Chopin's  pupil ;  I  got  it  from  him  also,  as  well  as 
some  other  peculiarities  of  fingering,  which  I  have  found 
invaluable." 

"  Play  that  again,  if  you  please.  Commence  at  the  be 
ginning,"  urged  Ehrenherz ;  "  I  wish  to  examine  your 
management  closely.  How  exactly  you  produce  Mendels 
sohn's  'perfect  touch,  fingers  shod  in  velvet'!"  He 
watched  her  attentively,  especially  one  passage  in  the 
fourteenth  measure,  just  before  the  close  of  the  allegro ; 
there  she  slackened  almost  imperceptibly  on  the  A  sharp, 
which  note  she  took  with  the  second  finger  of  the  right 
hand,  then  slipped  the  same  finger  from  the  extremity  of 
the  black  key,  on  the  B  natural,  which  follows  ;  the  effect 
of  this  legato  is  very  striking,  as  De  Lenz  says.  "  Now," 
said  Ehrenherz,  "the  third  finger  on  that  B  would  not  be 
wrong;  but  how  much  better  is  Chopin's  management! 
Then  the  fourth  finger  on  those  eleven  staccato  notes  gives 
that  velvety  touch  so  often  described  to  me  as  a  peculi 
arity  of  Chopin's  playing." 

"  You  never  heard  Chopin,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  unfortunately ;  but  I  have  often  heard  Liszt ;  and  the 
shades  and  coquetries  of  expression  obtained  by  his  finger 
ing  are  innumerable.  The  modern  school  of  fingering  has' 
been  of  great  service." 

"Ah,  what  a  weary  task  was  that  finger  business  to 
me !"  I  said. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  247 

"Yes,"  cried  Marie,  "one  might  think  so.  Mr.  Ebren- 
herz,  her  copy  of  dementi's  Gradus  ad  Parnassum  is  as 
thickly  covered  with  lead-pencil  and  ink  figures,  for  the 
fingering,  as  a  study  of  figured  base." 

"Oh,  how  that  recalls  the  summer  I  did  it!". I  said. 
"  It  was  a  pensum  or  task  I  set  myself  when  I  was  far 
away  in  the  country,  and  had  no  piano  to  practice  on — so 
many,  many  years  ago.  My  poor  master,  a  pupil  of  the 
great  Trajetta,  was  dying  of  consumption,  and  I  knew  I 
never  could  have  his  invaluable  lessons  again;  and  by 
doing  this  I  hoped  to  impress  upon  my  memory,  as  well 
as  on  my  book,  the  principle  of  his  excellent  system  of 
fingering." 

Ehrenherz  then  asked  me  many  questions  of  my  poor 
master,  and  of  old  Trajetta,  that  great  Neapolitan  maestro, 
who  died,  unhonored  and  unknown,  in  America.  This  led 
us  to  different  systems  of  teaching,  and  I  made  Ehrenherz 
smile  with  the  pleasure  of  a  teacher,  over  the  descriptions 
I  gave  of  the  enthusiastic  pride  with  which  I  had  received 
and  treasured  Trajetta's  scribbled,  blotted  copies  of  the 
old  Neapolitan  solfeggi,  on  which  Agujari  and  Gabrielli 
had  been  trained  ;  and  how  I  sang  them,  and  the  duos  of 
Durante,  with  such  pious  zeal  and  earnestness ;  submit 
ting  patiently  to  the  severest  practice,  with  various  instru 
ments,  in  order  to  fix,  exactly  and  firmly,  the  different 
registers  of  the  voice,  according  to  his  orthodox  notions 
of  voice-training.  Then  Marie  described  Wolfmaister's 
mode  of  teaching,  and  Ehrenherz  gave  us  his  valuable 
experience. 

"A  master  should  be  so  conscientious,"  he  said,  in  his 
gentle,  earnest  manner.  "  To  be  sure,  few  young  pupils 
can  comprehend  the  high  end  and  aim  of  music,  and  its 
elevated  poesy ;  but  we  should,  however,  respect  youth 
enough,  to  prepare  the  virgin  soil  to  receive,  some  time  in 


248  COMPENSATION; 

the  future,  the  grand  conceptions  of  great  musical  minds. 
For  beginners,  a  little,  very  little,  of  Hiinten  ;  then  Czerny, 
in  order  to  arrive  at  the  exercises  of  Cramer,  which  are 
like  the  fables  of  La  Fontaine — nothing  can  take  their 
place.  x  After  these,  some  of  the  simplest  compositions  of 
Haydn  and  Mozart  will  show  the  end  to  which  these 
preparations  tend.  By  practicing  constantly  '  many  scales,' 
the  pupil,  under  the  direction  of  an  intelligent  master,  will 
be  able  to  arrive  at  the  more  elevated  style  of  Mozart ; 
from  that — for  example,  from  Mozart's  Fantaisie  Sonate — 
he  can  enter  into  the  world  of  Beethoven.  But  before  I 
allowed  any  of  my  pianists  to  touch  Beethoven,  I  gave 
them  always  some  of  Weber's  early  seriates ;  there  are 
six  of  his  I  have  used  a  great  deal,  arranged  for  piano 
and  violin,  and  also  arranged  for  four  hands.  Then, 
when  I  could  give  them  an  opportunity  of  studying  or 
practicing  with  other  instruments,  the  two  quartettes 
of  Mozart,  for  piano,  violin,  alto,  and  violoncello ;  and 
the  trio,  for  piano,  viob'n,  and  alto,  brought  them  along 
famously." 

"  Wolfmaister  gave  me  the  '  Kinderstiicke'  of  Mendels 
sohn,  two  years  ago,"  said  Marie,  "  when  I  was  just  be 
ginning  this  higher  order  of  compositions." 

"  They  are  delicious,"  replied  Ehrenherz.  "  Have  you 
ever  read  over  the  '  Kinderstiicke'  of  R.  Schumann  ?" 

How  Marie's  full  brown  eyes  lighted  up  !  Now  she 
was  repaid  for  her  quarrels  with  Wolfmaister ;  for  Ehreii- 
herz  appreciated,  as  she  did,  the  works  of  this  great  weird 
composer.  "Yes,  with  delight!"  she  cried  out.  "How 
beautiful  is  the  '  Friihlingsgesang,'  and  'Erster  Verlust,' 
and  '  Erirmerung!'  " 

"Also,  '  Mai,  lieber  Mai,'  "  rejoined  Ehrenherz.  "  These, 
however,  may  be  '  Kinderstiicke'  for  us,  but  not  for  the 
ordinary  pupil.  Of  course,  Mademoiselle  Merle,  your 
master  has  made  you  study  Bach  ?" 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  249 

"  I  made  myself  study  him,"  said  Marie,  pointing  to  her 
well-used  copy  of  Bach's  Clavecin  Men  tempere.  "  Wolf- 
maister  would  never  give  a  woman  such  strong  musical 
food  as  that. " 

"  No  study,"  said  Ehrenherz,  "  so  well  develops  the 
mechanism  and  musical  intelligence  of  a  pupil  as  a  gradual 
study  oPthe  preludes  and  fugues  of  Bach." 

Then,  turning  the  pages  of  her  volumes  of  Bach,  he  se 
lected  two  or  three  of  the  fugues,  and  played  them  over 
for  her,  pointing  out  and  explaining  some  of  the  difficult 
managements  and  motives. 

"  I  am  as  great  a  heretic  about  the  fugue,"  I  said, 
rather  flippantly,  "  as  Wolfmaister  is  about  the  poetical 
language  we  read  in  music,  and  which  he  calls  '  musical 
transcendental  stuff.'  The  fugue  seems  to  me  not  only 
tiresome,  but  useless.  Why  need  modern  musicians  em 
ploy  it?" 

"  The  fugue  is  out  of  vogue,  nowadays,"  answered 
Ehrenherz,  "because.it  is  not  in  the  feelings.  The  dia 
lectic  style  is  the  spirit  of  the  fugue,  and  that  spirit  is 
not  in  many  composers  now.  The  fngue  is  useful,  nay, 
necessary ;  but  to  carry  it  to  an  extreme,  as  it  was  at  one 
time  in  musical  compositions,  is  folly ;  it  does  no  good ; 
it  is  like  the  dry,  close  reasoning  of  a  logician,  on  a  use 
less  point,  which  gains  nothing  when  proved." 

"  Or  like  many  philosophers,"  I  added,  "who  waste  a 
lifetime  over  the  study  of  some  minor  point  in  science,  of 
service  only  to  the  little  world  of  savans ;  leaving  unex- 
amined,  on  either  side,  marvelous  things,  from  which  might 
be  gained  or  discovered  inventions  and  improvements  of 
benefit  to  the  whole  human  race.  Therefore,  let  us  give 
our  musical  veto  on  all  fugue  passages  in  future  musical 
compositions." 

"  But,"   said    Ehrenherz,   smiling  at    my   rather   pre- 


250  COMPENSATION; 

sumptuous  tirade  against  the  fugue,  "then  you  must 
banish  all  musical  reasoning  from  compositions,  and  that 
would  leave  us  sorry  works.  Cherubini  has  a  sentence  in 
his  '  Course  on  Counterpoint,'  which  will  do  very  well  to 
quote  to  you,  Mademoiselle  Fauvette:  'Every  composi 
tion,  in  order  that  the  management  of  it  be  well  under 
stood,  should  have  the  style  of  the  fugue  in  it,  if  it  has 
not  precisely  its  character  and  form.'  The  fugue  is  to 
music  what  a  knowledge  of  the  human  frame  is  to  the 
sculptor  or  painter.  It  is  the  skeleton  of  musical  form. 
The  dry  composers  of  the  fugue,  who  would  sacrifice 
everything  to  it,  are  like  those  painters  of  the  eclectic 
schools,  who  succeeded  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Michael  An- 
gelo,  and  Raphael :  in  their  eagerness  to  imitate  the  old 
masters,  they  forgot  the  great  aim  of  art ;  they  grouped 
figures  together  with  academic  exactitude,  but  without 
regard  to  the  natural  positions  the  subject  required  ;  they 
exaggerated  muscles,  and  indulged  in  needless  foreshort 
ening,  merely  to  show  their  knowledge  of  drawing, — and 
thus  sacrificed  beauty  and  true  feeling  to  the  mere  letter." 

Ehrenherz's  rebuke  was  so  courteously  given,  I  could 
not  feel  piqued  at  any  one  but  myself;  so  I  laughed 
heartily  over  the  mild  but  well-merited  snubbing  I  had 
received. 

"  I  think  I  deserve  some  reward  for  taking  your  civil 
reproof  so  good-humoredly,"  I  said,  as  I  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  a  volume  of  Beethoven's  senates.  I  came  to 
the  twelfth  sonate,  Opus  26, — the  grand  sonate  in  A  flat. 
"  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  this  to-night  ?" 

"Not  in  this  atmosphere,"  answered  Ehrenherz,  gra 
ciously.  "One  can  fly  great  lengths  and  heights  ^before 
such  an  audience.  But,"  he  added,  as  he  sat  at  the  piano, 
and  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  music,  "  it  makes  me 
wish  for  the  fingers  and  poetic  coloring  of  a  Liszt." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  251 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ehrenherz,"  cried  Marie,  "  have  you  ever 
read  what  De  Lenz  says  of  Wehrstaedt,  of  Geneva,  in 
reference  to  this  twelfth  sonate  ?" 

Ehrenherz  had  not,  and  we  read  to  him  the  amusing 
story  De  Lenz  relates,  in  his  admirable  work,  Trois  Styles 
de  Beethoven.  The  theme  of  the  first  part  of  this  sonate 
was  the  life-occupation  of  this  eccentric  but  simple-minded 
artist,  Wehrstaedt,  who,  in  183*7,  was  considered  the  best 
master  of  the  piano  in  Geneva.  De  Lenz  says, — 

"  When  he  came  to  give  me  my  lesson,  at  the  pension 
boarding-school  of  the  celebrated  Swiss  pastor,  Bouvier, 
Wehrstaedt  seated  himself,  after  giving  me  a  dry  saluta 
tion,  beside  the  horrible  piano  of  the  boarding-school,  with 
out  saying  a  word,  or  without  removing  his  hat  from  his 
head.  I  opened  the  twelfth  sonate  of  Beethoven,  and 
placed  it  on  the  music-stand.  He  threw  on  me  a  sad  look. 
'Why  this  piece?'  he  asked,  in  a  mournful  tone.  'Why 
not  a  galop  of  Herz?'  'Because  I  like  it,'  I  answered, 
'and  I  have  played  it  a  great  deal.'  'What  a  pity!'  he 
said,  sorrowfully.  '  Why,  do  you  know,  you  cannot  pos 
sibly  understand  what  this  first  page  contains  ?' 

"I  commenced  playing  it,  as  people  play  who  have  had 
what  are  ordinarily  called  good  '  masters ;'  masters  who 
are  like  the  mice,  that  comprehend  nothing  of  the  archi 
tecture  of  the  grange  through  which  they  scamper.  '  Stop !' 
he  said  abruptly,  and,  pushing  me  away  from  the  piano, 
took  my  place.  Shall  I  tell  you  how  he  played  ?  I  am 
not  able.  His  fingers  seemed  glued  to  the  keys,  as  insepa 
rably  as  the  Siamese  twins  to  one  another.  The  Beethoven 
theme  and  the  piano  appeared  to  make  one  individual. 
Never  have  I  heard  a  similar  legato ;  a  coherency  so  ex 
actly  calculated  for  the  tones  of  a  piano,  an  expression  so 
penetrating,  or  a  rhythm  so  severe.  After  that  was  over, 
he  held  out  the  encouraging  hope  to  me  that,  by  following 


252  COMPENSATION; 

his  counsels,  I  might  possibly  play,  after  a  year's  practice, 
the  first  eight  measures  of  the  motif '  tolerably1  well.  The 
crescendo  would  exact  a  new  and  serious  study  of  cres 
cendo  in  general,  and  this  one  in  particular.  As  to  the 
contre  parlie  of  the  motif, — here  he  drew  a  hopeless  sigh, 
saying,  '  I  have  had  to  give  up  playing  this  myself,  on  ac 
count  of  that  diabolical  trill  on  the  D.  A  conscientious 
study  of  twenty  years,  young  man,  has  not  enabled  me  to 
do  it  properly.' 

"  This  trill,  to  which  the  executant  can  only  give  the 
third  and  fourth  fingers  of  the  right  hand,  while  the  thumb 
and  the  first  finger  are  occupied,  is  just  saved, — barely  ac 
complished,  as  all  pianists  admit.  Wehrstaedt  had  made 
the  trill  of  the  third  and  fourth  fingers,  in  these  difficult 
positions,  the  study  of  his  life!  But  the  equality  of  his 
trill,  its  fullness,  the  sharpness  of  its  termination — and  the 
force,  above  all,  with  which  the  little  finger  attacked  the 
E  flat,  which  follows  in  the  passage  referred  to  —  was 
something  approaching  to  the  marvelous.  During  a  long 
sojourn  at  Geneva,  Wehrstaedt,  like  Madame  de  Stae'l, 
never  visited  Chamouni ;  that  says  enough  for  the  musi 
cian,  as  it  does  for  the  great  authoress.  To  exercise  this 
trill,  to  give  enough  lessons  to  the  Genevese  to  enable 
him,  as  he  said,  'in  an  appreciable  time  to  espouse'  some 
great  unknown  damsel  of  Berne — whose  charms  he  cele 
brated  daily  in  the  four  exquisite  senates  of  Weber — such 
was  the  existence  of  this  excellent  man,  the  most  inoffen 
sive  of  human  beings  " 

Ehrenherz  laughed  heartily  over  this  humorous  story, 
then  commenced  the  captivating  theme  of  this  epic  of 
senates.  It  is  one  of  those  inspirations  that  can  come 
only  once  in  the  life  of  an  artist.  As  I  sat  listening  to 
the  five  variations  on  the  theme,  I  thought  of  those  ex 
quisite  "  Sonnets,  from  the  Portuguese,"  of  Mrs.  Brown- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  253 

ing;  each  variation  repeated,  in  a  ravishing  style,  the 
subject  of  the  theme,  as  each  one  of  those  beautiful  son 
nets  repeats  the  sweet  confession  of  love.  Then  the  last 
variation  was  calm  and  complete  in  its  expression ;  the 
love  had  arrived  at  its  "perfect  purple  fullness,"  as  in  the 
last  sonnet  is  sung  with  quiet  rapture,  the  sweet  mount 
ing  up  to  the  full  completion  of  the  heart's  bliss, — 

"I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears  of  all  my  life." 

Then  the  melodic  phrase  at  the  end  of  the  variation 
seemed  to  say, — 

"And,  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death." 

The  scherzo,  Ehrenherz  rolled  off  grandly.  The  shafts 
of  the  treble  responded  sharply  to  the  volleys  of  the  base, 
and  this  glorious  base  sounded  like  the  dashing  of  the 
waves  of  our  beautiful  lake,  during  a  storm,  against  the 
terrace  walls  of  the  chateau.  The  third  part  is  the  famous 
Marche  funebre  sur  la  mort  djun  heros.  How  different 
from  Chopin's  Marche  Funebre!  and  yet  equally  grand 
in  its  genre :  one  is  subjective,  the  other  objective.  In 
Beethoven's,  one  sees  the  funeral  procession  passing,  the 
troops  drawn  up  on  either  side ;  the  rolling  of  the  drums 
salutes  with  solemn  reverence  the  lifeless  remains  of  a 
man  who  must  have  been  the  glory  and  pride  of  a  nation, 
as,  with  gloomy  pomp,  he  is  borne  into  the  superb  mauso 
leum  ;  it  is  a  grand  military  display  over  the  burial  of  a 
great  warrior.  But  Chopin's  senate  and  "Marche  Fune 
bre  "  are  widely  different.  The  sonate  seems  the  gloomy 
reverie  of  the  mind,  on  the  approaching  death  of  its  mortal 
part;  whether  death  will  extend  to  the  soul,  which  it  has 
fondly  hoped  was  immortal,  agonizes  the  thoughts.  How 
confused  and  involved  grows  the  harmony  of  the  last 

22 


254  CO  MP ENS  A  TION; 

pages  of  this  senate !  There  is  expressed  the  doubt,  the 
horror  of  nothingness,  the  dread  of  annihilation  ;  all  this 
presses  in  upon  the  poor,  shivering  spirit;  and  dumb,  de 
spairing  chords  and  modulations  bring  the  reverie  to  the 
solemn  close  of  death, — to  that  moment  when  the  great 
secret  shall  be  disclosed !  Then  follows  the  "  Marche 
Funebre,"  which  seems  as  the  resolving  of  all  this  sus 
pense  and  dismay,  for  it  sounds  like  a  solemn  chant  of 
spirits,  bearing  the  soul  aloft  to  higher,  purer  realms,  with 
soothing  strains  and  full  glorious  harmony,  fully  com 
pensating  for  the  terrible,  gloomy,  discordant  doubts  of 
the  senate. 

But  to  return  to  Beethoven's.  After  Ehrenherz  finished 
the  "Marche  Funebre,"  he  grasped  the  finale  of  the  mar 
velous  twelfth  senate.  This  allegro  displayed  to  great 
advantage  his  cleverness  as  a  pianist.  The  chromatic 
grupetti  flew  like  arrows  through  the  wind,  and  yet  his 
right  hand  rested  calm  and  firm,  while  it  threw  off,  with 
masterly  dexterity,  the  brilliant  groups  of  double  crotchets. 

"  Ah,  Beethoven,  Beethoven  !"  cried  Marie,  her  soft 
brown  eyes  swimming  with  emotion,  as  Ehrenherz  finished 
the  last  measure.  "  How  true  it  is,  that  one  cannot  be 
taught  his  music  !  it  must  be  felt  and  understood.  I  can 
not  express  my  thanks  to  you  for  this  piece  of  execution. 
I  have  always  felt  how  this  sonate  should  be  played,  but 
have  never  heard  it  before,  satisfactorily.  Wolfmaister 
always  makes  of  it  what  Chopin  used  to  call  '  a  pigeon 
chase.'" 

"  '  Fingertanz,'  as  Beethoven  called  the  style  of  playing 
you  mean,"  said  Ehrenherz,  laughing.  "  The  legato  is  the 
principal  thing  to  aim  at.  You  have  the  idea  exactly, 
Mademoiselle  Marie  ;  just  as  you  execute  that  sonate  in 
G,  Opus  14,  that  you  played  for  me  this  evening, — that 
is  the  true  style.  See,  how  you  change  from  left  to  right 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  255 

hand,  in  order  to  save  break  or  interruption, — that  is  the 
great  charm  of  piano-forte  playing.  The  lie  style  alone 
produces  a  beautiful  tone ;  the  sound  must  be  coaxed  out, 
as  it  were,  when  the  executant  touches  the  keys." 

A  little  more  pleasant  talk,  and  then  Ehreuherz  bade  us 
good  night,  promising  to  be  with  us  early  the  next  morn- 
ins:. 


256  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER    XXL 

EHRENHERZ'S   LAST   EVENING. 

IT  was  Ehrenherz's  last  day  with  us.  He  had  already 
stayed  longer  in  Peilz  than  he  had  dreamed  of,  when  he 
stopped  for  a  few  days  to  see  me  once  again.  But  Marie's 
wonderful  talent,  the  musical  atmosphere  surrounding  us, 
united  to  the  pleasure  of  being  with  an  old  friend,  who 
could  talk  with  him  about  at  least  one  period  of  his  sweet 
past  with  his  beloved  sister — had  proved  irresistible  ;  and 
he  had  stayed  on,  week  after  week,  insensibly.  We  had 
walked  with  him  everywhere ;  for,  luckily,  while  he  was 
with  us  the  weather  had  been  remarkably  fine :  no  snow 
on  the  roads,  and  only  enough  cold  weather  to  make  icicles 
on  our  beautiful  little  cascade  d'Hauteville,  and  to  whiten 
the  tops  of  our  mountains. 

That  afternoon,  Ehrenherz  and  I  had  walked  to  Haute- 
ville,  with  Dora  and  Beau.  We  spent  an  hour  or  more, 
exploring  the  beautiful  points  of  that  lovely  Swiss  estate ; 
we  descended  the  narrow  ivy-covered  steps,  leading  down 
the  woody  hill  to  the  ravine  beneath  the  second  cascade, 
and  looked  at  the  long,  pendent  icicles,  the  soaring  pine- 
trees,  and  the  rugged  rocks ;  then  down  on  the  Oignon, 
moving  slowly  across  the  jagged  tops  of  its  rocky  bed,  over 
which  in  spring  it  would  dash  so  madly.  Some  two  or 
three  years  after,  the  Parisian  critics  were  writing  learned 
articles  over  a  new  symphony  of  Ehrenherz.  One  passage 
confused  these  modern  Athenians ;  it  was  called,  as  they 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  257 

expressed  it,  "  from  a  caprice  of  the  composer,  the  Cas 
cade."  "  But,"  said  B.,  that  cleverest  of  all  musical  aesthete 
ical  writers  of  the  day,  "  if  it  is  a  waterfall,  it  is  a  frozen 
one ;  rugged  and  wintry  is  the  landscape,  and  sluggish  is 
the  flow  of  the  stream." 

Ehrenherz  wrote  to  me  at  the  time,  "  I  wish  you  could 
hear  my  symphony.  You  should,  of  all  others  ;  for  it  is  a 
memory  of  our  last  visit  to  Hauteville,  that  January  after 
noon,  three  years  ago.  Have  you  read  B.'s  clever  criticism 
on  it? — which,  by  the  way,  is  far  superior  to  my  humble 
symphony,  doing  me  a  great  deal  too  much  honor ;  like 
'  Shakspeare's  critics,  bringing  to  view  more  than  Shak- 
speare  ever  knew.'  But  how  well  he  sees  into  my  water 
fall  I" 

I  little  imagined,  when  we  stood  looking  at  the  wild, 
picturesque  spot,  that  our  visit  would  be  thus  grandly  com 
memorated  ;  and  have  often  thought  since  of  the  specula 
tions  of  biographers,  some  generation  or  two  after  our  time, 
over  the  meaning  of  this  name,  given  to  that  part  of  this 
great  composition  by  the  wonderful  young  maestro. 

Then  we  slowly  clambered  back,  and  went  up  to  the 
Belvedere,  near  the  greenhouses  of  the  chateau,  and  sat 
on  its  steps  for  a  long  while,  looking  down  on  the  lake, — 

"which,  like  a  shield 
Some  giant  long  had  ceased  to  wield, 
Lay  with  its  edges  sunk  in  sand  and  stone ;" — 

and  over  into  the  beautiful  Rhone  valley.  Dents  du  Midi 
were  enveloped  in  a  poetic  sunny  haze  ;  the  white,  glitter 
ing  snows  of  Mont  Velan  and  Mont  Catogne  shone  re 
splendent  ;  and  the  graceful  outline  of  Dent  de  Morcles 
stood  clearly  out  against  the  deep-blue  sky,  so  graciously 
chiseled  by  nature's  master-hand.  The  weather  was  bland, 
and  warm  as  early  spring ;  the  sashes  of  the  greenhouses 

22* 


258  COMPENSATION; 

were  pushed  aside,  and  the  exotics  sent  out  their  balmy 
greeting  on  the  air  to  this  lovely  young  spring  day,  lying 
with  such  bewitching  coquetry  "in  the  lap  of  old  winter." 
All  the  laborers,  men  and  women,  were  out  in  the  Vine 
yards,  digging  around  and  tying  up  the  vines  ;  the  air  was 
filled  with  their  merry  voices :  first  the  words,  then  the 
laughs,  then  a  distant,  broken  song ;  and  mingled  with 
all  these  rustic,  pastoral  sounds,  was  the  warbling  of  the 
little  birds,  rejoicing  over  Dame  Nature's  soft,  indulgent 
winter.  On  our  left  stretched  up  the  beautiful  Pleiades, 
from  whose  smiling  slopes  Blonay's  old  towers  stood 
clearly  out;  numberless  little  mountain  villages  peeped 
out  here  and  there,  and  Ehrenherz  pointed  to  the  soft  blue 
vapor  hanging  over  each  one,  telling  the  hour  of  the  even 
ing  meal — the  supper — which,  to  his  "  home-loving"  Ger 
man  tastes,  added  a  sweeter  charm  to  the  scene. 

"  How  often,"  he  said,  "  shall  I  think  of  this,  when 
shut  up  in  a  dark  city,  in  the  close  atmosphere  of  our 
winter  rooms !  a  draught  of  fresh  air,  blowing  from  an 
open  window  over  a  pot  of  violets  or  a  box  of  reseda,  will 
remind  me  of  it.  I  will  shut  my  eyes,  and  invoke  from 
memory  a  sight  of  this  picture,  the  imprint  of  which  I 
now  commit  to  her  faithful  charge, — and  it  will  cheer  and 
refresh  me." 

He  did  more,  for  he  has  commemorated  that  afternoon 
gloriously ;  and  that  is  why  my  memory  brings  back  so 
vividly  each  detail.  Often,  in  the  crowded  concert-rooms, 
I  have  listened  to  the  divine  pastoral  sounds  of  his  mar 
velous  symphony ;  and  while  the  enthusiastic  crowd  have 
watched  the  beautiful  unfoldings  of  harmony  created  by 
this  young  modern  master  of  instrumentation,  dazzled 
and  entranced  by  his  gorgeous  orchestral  coloring,  I  have 
closed  my  eyes,  and  straightway  memory's  magic  doors 
would  fly  open,  showing  me  as  complete  a  representation 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  259 

of  that  Swiss  scene  as  if  it  had  been  really  present ;  not 
only  the  sounds,  but  the  poetic,  hazy  sunlight,  and  even 
the  atmospheric  fragrance  and  vapor. 

Hugh  Miller  says  that  metaphysicians  have  not  yet  en 
tered  some  provinces  of  the  mind :  "  That  there  is  a  mys 
terious  cabinet  of  daguerreotype  pictures,  of  which,  though 
fast  locked  up  on  ordinary  occasions,  disease  sometimes 
flings  the  door  ajar."  To  this  mysterious  cabinet,  music 
also  possesses  the  key, — the  magical  sesame ;  and  the  pic 
tures  are  not  mere  daguerreotypes,  for  not  only  are  forms 
found  there,  but  sounds  and  odors — odors  unthought  of 
at  the  time,  but  whose  fragrance  remains  in  the  pure  at 
mosphere  of  this  sanctuary,  fresh  and  unfading ;  the  very 
tones  of  loved  ones,  the  dead  lost  and  living  lost,  ring  in 
our  ears ;  those  short,  kind  words,  spoken  by  them  without 
thought  in  the  past, — and  only  one  instant,  it  may  have 
been,  in  the  utterance, — but  whose  echoes  are  endless ! 

"  The  world  is  wide — these  things  are  email ; 
They  may  be  nothing— hut  they  are  all !" 

While  Dora  and  Beau  walked  up  and  down  the  beauti 
ful  avenue  of  lime-trees,  Ehrenherz  and  I  talked  of  the 
past,  of  the  darlings  "  gone  before,"  of  the  tarrying  place, 
the  loss  of  loved  ones  made  of  earth. 

"A  little  more  work,"  he  said,  "a  little  more  patient  en 
durance  of  the  separation,  and  then  our  eyes  will  be  truly 
opened,  and  we  shall  see  them  again.  But  life  is  so  calm 
and  sweet  to  me  now,  so  without  the  unrest  of  ambition, 
that  I  fancy  her  spirit  must  be  hovering  ever  around  me, 
smoothing  away  all  roughness, — 'making  straight  dis 
torted  Wills,'  as  that  beautiful  poem  you  read  last  evening 
says.  Life  has  no  rude  points  since  she  left  me — or, 
rather,  since  our  eyes  closed  on  her  presence.  At  first, 
you  know  how  hard  it  was  for  me  to  think  of  taking  up 


2  G  0  COMPENSA  TION; 

life  without  her;  but  it  seemed  mercifully  arranged  for 
me  ;  even  my  weary  lessons,  formerly  such  a  leaden  round, 
became  brightened  to  me, — every  pupil  seemed  imbued 
with  a  portion  of  her  presence.  Then  came  this  gratifying 
offer  from  Europe,  and,  strange  to  say,  that  very  nonette 
I  composed  during  the  last  summer  of  her  life,  and  which 
she  loved  so  much,  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  de 
cision  in  my  favor.  Oh,  my  friend !  it  surely  cannot  be 
mere  fancy,  this  idea  I  have,  that  she  is  my  guardian 
spirit, — loving  me  as  she  did  in  life,  and  possessing  more 
power  to  work  good  for  me,  after  the  emancipation  of 
death." 

In  a  chapel  of  Saint  Francesco  de  Paolo,  at  Naples,  is 
a  painting  representing  a  guardian  spirit  conducting  a 
youth ;  the  life  path  is  covered  with  sharp  thorns,  on 
which  the  boy  treads  with  bare,  bleeding  feet ;  before  him 
lies  the  tempter  Sin,  holding  the  mirror  of  vanity  up  in 
front  of  him,  to  dazzle  him ;  but  the  youth  looks  stead 
fastly  into  the  face  of  his  angel  guide,  rests  lovingly  on 
the  encircling  arm,  and  is  borne  safely  along.  So  looked 
Ehrenherz,  as  he  said  these  words.  I  felt  awe-stricken ; 
I  thought  I  could  see  the  violet  wings  and  snowy  vesture 
of  an  angel ;  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  on  holy  ground ; 
and  most  exquisitely  the  adagio  of  his  symphony,  in  that 
golden  violet  key  of  B  flat,  expresses  all  he  said  on  that 
sweet  day,  and  all  I  felt. 

The  beautiful  moon  rose,  and  hung  over  the  lake  its 
pure  orb,  mingling  its  silver  rays  with  the  orange  and 
crimson  light  of  the  setting  sun.  The  snowy  tops  of  the 
Savoy  Alps  looked  as  if  chiseled  out  of  pure  white  mar 
ble,  and  stood  cutting  and  clear  against  the  sky.  We 
walked  slowly  home,  Beau  fast  asleep  in  Dora's  arms, 
completely  tired  out  with  his  afternoon's  race  ;  and  Eh 
renherz  and  I  lingered  along  the  road,  turning  every  little 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  261 

while  and  stopping,  as  though  we  never  expected  to  see 
the  place  again,  and  were  bidding  it  adieu. 

We  drank  tea  with  Marie ;  and  Mr.  Merle  and  Tante 
Cecile  had  a  long  talk  with  Ebrenherz  over  his  American 
reminiscences.  Then  we  ascended  to  the  salon,  and  Marie 
played  for  him  his  favorites,  "  Lament"  and  "  Consolation" 
of  Chopin;  the  beautiful  "Etudes;"  and  the  "Wedding 
March,"  from  Mendelssohn's  "  Songe  d'une  Nuit  d'Ete." 
Then  she  poured  out,  like  a  rich  golden  wine,  her  arrange 
ment  of  the  "  Adelaide"  of  Beethoven.  The  beautiful 
andante  flowed  from  beneath  her  fingers  as  a  delicious 
idyl ;  and  that  allegro,  so  ineffective  for  the  voice,  from 
her  exquisite  accenting  and  rich  accessories,  mounted  up 
gloriously,  and  became  all  that  my  taste  exacted  of  me  in 
vain,  when  I  sang  it. 

"  It  is  so  provoking,"  I  cried  out,  as  she  finished,  "  for 
a  singer  to  love  a  passage  as  I  do  that  allegro,  and  yet 
feel  that  it  is  so  completely  untranslatable  into  the  lan 
guage  of  song !" 

But  they  both  made  me  sing  it  to  them,  their  ears  of 
loving  friendship  giving  the  piece  all  that  it  lost  by  being 
sung.  Then  Ehrenherz  took  the  piano,  and  played  for  us 
those  exquisite  improvisations  on  thoughts  and  feelings, 
so  different  from  improvisings  on  given  themes.  At  last 
he  remained  silent  for  a  moment ;  then,  striking  a  chord 
in  E  flat,  commenced  the  adagio  introduction  of  Beetho 
ven's  "Les  Adieux,  L'Absence,  et  Le  Retour,"  Opus  81. 
How  touchingly  the  first  three  notes  seemed  to  utter 
"  Lebewohl !"  I  think  I  never,  before  or  after,  heard 
Ehrenherz  play  that  difficult  but  powerful  sonate  so  well ; 
it  was  an  execution  of  inspiration.  In  the  "Adieux,"  the 
parting  friends  appeared  to  return  again  and  again,  to  say, 
tenderly,  "Lebewohl ;"  the  descending  gamuts  were  like 
the  lingering  steps  of  departure ;  and  the  curious  effect  in 


262  COMPENSA  TION; 

the  finale  of  this  first  division  of  the  senate — of  the  re 
doubled  blows  of  the  tonic  and  dominant — was  like  a 
bodily  presence  of  those  clanging  doors,  invisible  to  the 
eyes,  but  so  sensibly  heard  and  felt  at  certain  epochs  of 
our  lives,  when  one  phrase  succeeds  another,  and  the 
past,  and  all  connected  with  it,  is  shut  out  from  us  irre 
vocably. 

Ehrenherz's  touch  and  accent,  always  so  faultless,  be 
came  heightened  by  inspiration;  and  this  passage,  which 
ordinarily  needs  the  orchestral  effect  to  present  the  poetic 
idea  intended  to  be  conveyed  by  this  curious  expression, 
was  made  as  clear  to  us  as  if  we  had  had  all  the  grand 
timbre  of  a  full  orchestra.  Then  followed  the  "  andante," 
which  expresses  the  sorrow  of  absence.  There  was  the 
magic  circle  of  memory ;  the  three  tone  syllables,  as  of 
one  loved  name ;  the  dwelling  on  the  sweet  words,  as  it 
were ;  then  came  that  ravishing  episode  of  the  flute  solo, 
so  soft,  so  tender  and  trusting, — this  gentle  grief  of  "Ab- 
wesenheit." 

The  "  Return"  then  rang  out  grandly  a  hymn  of  joy  and 
gratitude;  Ebrenherz's  hands  seemed  gifted  with  double 
power,  and  Marie's  Erard  was  possessed  with  a  sympa 
thizing  spirit,  for  the  glorious  lights  and  shadows  of  an 
orchestra  hung  around  the  grand  picture,  as  his  skillful 
fingers  rapidly  sketched  it  out. 

He  struck  the  last  notes,  rose  from  the  piano,  took  both 
our  hands  together,  kissed  them,  and  left  the  room  in  si 
lence.  Our  hands  were  wet,  telling  us  that  his  cheeks  had 
been  tear-washed  as  well  as  our  own.  A  touching  and 
fitting  farewell  from  our  young  maestro.  Often  in  the 
future,  as  it  unfolded  more  and  more  gloriously  for  those 
two  gifted  artists,  did  I  recall  that  night  with  happy  pride. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  2G3 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

BAD   NEWS. 

THE  snow  fell  silently  and  heavily  ;  all  around  us  tow 
ered  white  peaks,  and  the  ravines,  stretched  down  to  the 
lake,  looking  like  frozen  mountain  water-courses.  "  The 
hardest  winter  for  many  years,"  so  every  one  said,  and  the 
dullest  one  Peilz  had  known  since  the  establishment  of  In 
stitution  Eperveil,  thirty  years  before.  The  usual  weekly 
exhibitions  of  the  students,  in  the  lecture-hall,  were  les 
sened  to  monthly;  then  they  had  dramatic  scenes,  some 
times  a  lecture  on  chemistry  and  natural  philosophy,  with 
interesting  experiments,  but  no  music.  Wolfmaister  was 
absent  on  business  speculations  in  England,  relating  to  his 
Clarens  lots,  and  making  preparations  for  a  terrible  rail 
way,  which  was  to  tear  ruthlessly  right  through  the  pretty 
green  heart  of  our  walk  above  Territet,  but  which,  if  it  did 
spoil  the  picturesque  beauties  of  this  lovely  shore,  would 
raise  the  prices  of  Wolfmaister's  cottage  property  to  a  myth 
ical  height. 

Madame  Eperveil  gave  no  grand  soirees,  no  dinners,  nor 
even  any  pleasant  social  coteries,  in  her  own  salon.  The 
old  lady  lived  in  solemn,  solitary  state,  having  but  little 
to  say  to  any  one.  After  our  unfortunate  scene  at  Point 
du  Pays,  at  the  time  of  Helene's  departure,  we  had  been 
very  cool  to  each  other.  The  Professor  and  Madame  Bou- 
vreuil  dined  with  her,  as  usual,  on  Sundays,  and  I  went  to 
the  Merles'.  Always,  as  I  returned  from  the  V.  chapel  on 


264  COMPENSATION; 

Sunday  noon,  I  would  meet  Marie  and  Tante  Cecile  com 
ing  out  of  the  old  Peilz  church,  where  Mr.  Merle  preached; 
and  the  dear  old  pastor  had  a  regular  standing  joke  for  the 
occasion ;  as  he«stretched  out  his  hand  to  give  me  a  friendly 
greeting,  he  would  say:  "  Now  the  lion  and  the  lamb  will 
lie  down  peacefully  together  at  the  same  repast.  Brother 
Martin  and  the  Mother  Church  have  ceased  their  battles ; 
surely  the  day  of  the  millennium  is  at  hand." 

During  the  first  part  of  the  year,  just  after  Ehrenherz  had 
left,  Tante  Octavie  sent  us  all  a  special  invitation  to  dine 
with  her.  The  old  lady  received  Marie  and  me  graciously, 
but  coldly,  and  the  dinner  was  a  little  stiff.  We  all  no 
ticed  how  thin  and  haggard  Tante  Octavie  looked ;  and  I 
saw,  as  we  stood  on  the  balcony,  after  dinner,  to  watch  the 
sunset,  that  in  her  rich  bandeaux  of  hair  there  were  many 
shining  silver  threads.  I  felt  sorry  for  the  old  lady,  very 
sorry  ;  but  her  stately  tread,  and  sternly  compressed  lips, 
and  slightly  knit  brow,  showed  that  she  did  not  want  any 
one's  sorrow  or  sympathy. 

Octave's  name  was  never  mentioned ;  even  when  letters 
came  from  him,  which  was  not  often,  Madame  Bouvreuil 
said  nothing  of  their  contents ;  but  I  noticed  that  she  and 
the  professor  always  looked  solemn  and  anxious  after  the 
reception  of  them,  Weekly  we  heard  from  Helene,  short, 
dull,  dry  letters.  Poor  child  !  she  was  being  worked  too 
hard  in  her  new  English  home.  Every  hour,  from  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  until  nine  at  night,  was  filled  up 
with  occupations.  One  of  her  letters  to  me  gave  an  ac 
count  of  her  daily  routine, 

"  You  ask  me  for  a  detail  of  my  duties,  Fanny,"  she 
wrote  in  part  of  the  letter ;  "  weary  enough  they  are.  I 
awaken  at  six :  at  seven  Arthur  and  Edgar  are  ready  in  the 
school-room  for  their  lessons  ;  at  half-past  eight  we  have 
family  prayers  and  breakfast — a  half-hour  generally  fin* 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  265 

ishes  both  ceremonies.  Ob,  Fanny !  I  often  wonder,  while 
listening  to  the  cold,  dry  devotions,  if  God  listens  to  our 
formalities.  At  nine  o'clock  the  little  girls  come  to  me, 
and  I  teach  them  everything  until  one  o'clock,  when  they 
go  out  to  ride,  or  walk,  while  I  mark  and  look  over  Miss 
Landsnecht's  music,  and  select  those  pieces  I  think  may 
suit  her  style.  Then  follows  luncheon,  which  is  the  din 
ner  for  the  children  and  governess.  In  the  afternoon,  I  go 
to  the  music-room,  and  give  the  music-lessons  to  the  little 
girls,  and  sometimes  play  duos  with  Miss  Landsnecht. 
An  hour  before  the  family  dinner  I  go  to  the  sitting-room 
of  Mrs.  Landsnecht's  mother,  a  dressy  old  dowager,  Lord 
S.'s  grandmother,  and  from  whom  he  certainly  inherited 
his  great  amount  of  sense ;  to  her  I  read  French  novels 
aloud,  and  if  Miss  Landsnecht  is  through  with  her  dinner 
toilette,  she  listens,  for  the  improvement  of  her  pronuncia 
tion  and  ear,  which  surely  need  all  the  culture  I  can  pos 
sibly  give  them. 

"After  that,  I  am  free  for  about  an  hour,  but  I  am  so 
weary  that  I  throw  my  poor,  tired  body  on  my  bed  to  rest. 
Then  comes  the  summons  that  Masters  Arthur  and  Edgar 
are  ready,  and  I  go  to  look  over  their  classical  lessons,  and 
help  them  prepare  for  their  tutor ;  this  said  tutor  being 
quite  too  elegant  a  person  to  do  anything  but  read  prayers 
in  a  drawly  tone,  give  careless  lessons  in  the  morning  to 
the  boys,  and  flirt  with  Miss  Landsnecht ;  he  being  al 
lowed  to  do  all  this  because  he  is  the  son  of  a  younger  son 
of  a  poor  Lord  somebody,  and  this,  to  my  rich  but  bour- 
geoise  patrons,  is  something  worth  regarding.  At  nine 
the  bell  is  rung  for  prayers — those  '  dreadful  prayers  J'  as 
Marie  Merle  would  call  them,  if  she  felt  about  them  as  I 
do.  These  evening  prayers  are  like  some  festivals  in  the 
church,  movable,  being  dependent  on  the  will  of  the  tutor; 
and,  if  he  wishes  to  go  to  the  opera,  or  has  any  other  en- 

23 


266  COMPENSATION; 

gagement,  he  is  apt  to  summon  us  earlier,  for  he  need  not 
be  courteous  or  thoughtful,  as  his  congregation  consists 
only  of  children,  governess,  and  servants. 

"  Sometimes  I  receive  a  courteous  invitation  to  spend 
the  evening  in  the  drawing-room  ;  kind,  to  be  sure,  this 
invitation  sounds,  but  I  groan  inwardly  whenever  it  comes, 
for  I  know  they  only  mean  that  I  am  expected  to  go  and 
grind  out  quadrilles,  mazurkas,  and  valses  for  some  little 
company  of  Mrs.  Landsnecht  and  her  daughter. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  my  sharp,  complaining  letter,  Fanny. 
Do  not  let  mother  see  it,  please  ;  that  is  why  I  send  it, 
under  cover,  to  Marie  Merle.  I  do  wonder  if  I  shall  grow 
used  to  being  a  governess  ?  However,  one  comfort,  if  I 
have  to  be  one  to  the  end  of  my  life,  that  life,  in  such  a 
case,  will  not  be  very  long  in  the  world.  Fanny,  life  ^s 
solemn  business,  after  all,  as  I  have  heard  you  say;  and  I 
was  so  happy  in  those  days,  only  one  short  year  ago,  that 
I  wondered  to  hear  you  say  so. 

"  Good-by,  dear  friend ;  write  often  to  me ;  tell  me 
everything  you  can  about  mother ;  how  she  looks,  and 
talks,  and  feels.  Do  not  let  her  work  too  much ;  do  not 
let  her  assist  Fanchette  in  the  fine  ironing.  Remember 
your  own  mother,  Fanny,  and  watch  over  mine.  No  one 
can  tell  how  I  long  for  her ;  sometimes  in  the  night  I 
awaken,  and  think  she  is  by  me;  then  my  very  heart 
stands  still  with  agony,  when,  as  I  grow  fully  awake,  I 
realize  that  I  am  so  far  away  from  her." 

Poor  Helene !  Tante  Cecile,  Marie,  and  I  mourned  a 
great  deal  over  this  letter ;  the  tone  of  it  was  so  unlike 
Helene.  It  seemed  strange  to  see  our  merry,  graceful, 
gentle  friend  so  transformed  as  to  be  writing  and  feeling 
bitter  thoughts ;  there  was  a  hardness  and  hopelessness  in 
her  words,  which  proved  how  desolate  and  dispiriting  must 
be  her  mode  of  life. 


OH,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  26 T 

One  day  I  was  sitting  with  Tante  Cecile,  embroidering, 
listening  to  Marie,  who  was  playing  in  the  salon,  and  talk 
ing  in  an  under-tone  to  the  old  lady;  it  was,  in  the  spring, 
and  the  weather  was  sufficiently  warm  for  us  to  sit  in  the 
tower  room.  We  were  on  each  side  of  the  beautiful  stained- 
glass  window,  quite  out  of  Marie's  sight  and  hearing,  and 
Tante  Cecile  took  the  opportunity  to  tell  me  some  sad 
news  of  Octave. 

"  He  is  behaving  badly  enough,"  said  Tante  Cecile,  lean 
ing  over  to  me,  and  in  reply  to  a  remark  of  mine  about 
him.  "  Brother  Leonard  has  been  consulted  by  Madame 
Eperveil,  for  her  suspicions  about  him  are  beginning  to  be 
roused." 

"Beginning!"  I  repeated,  impatiently ;  "just  as  if  she 
has  not  had  reason  enough  to  open  her  eyes  to  his  habits 
any  time  since  I  came  to  Peilz." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  continued  Tante  Cecile ;  "  but  I  sup 
pose  affairs  are  so  bad  now  that  she  finds  she  must  open 
her  eyes  to  the  truth.  Poor  Octavie  Eperveil !  she  is 
very  anxious.  She  says  she  has  sent  him  large  sums  of 
money,  at  different  times,  during  the  past  two  years,  when 
ever  he  has  been  absent ;  but  that  since  last  summer  his 
demands  upon  her  have  been  enormous;  she  has  exhausted 
all  her  resources ;  and  when  she  wrote,  telling  him  this, 
he  answered  that  he  must  have  money,  or  he  should  be 
disgraced,  as  it  was  for  debts  of  honor  !" 

Poor  old  lady !  Now  I  understand  the  reason  of  the 
discontinuance  of  her  winter  amusements  ;  she  had  had-to 
observe  strict  economy  to  meet  even  the  regular  expenses 
of  the  Institution.  How  her  haggard,  worn  face  rose  up 
before  me !  I  wished  sincerely  I  had  never  quarreled  with 
her  in  the  past ;  and  I  thought  over  with  remorse  of  the 
foolish  subjects  of  difference  between  us,  which  caused 
such  a  separation  now,  when  I  might  be  able  to  comfort 


268  COMPENSATION; 

her  by  pleasing,  gentle  attentions.  My  heart  yearned  to 
be  something1  to  her.  I  forgot  all  her  unkind  tyranny;  I 
thought  only  of  her  lonely  hours,  her  age,  and  her  sorrow. 
Something  like  this  I  said  to  Tante  Cecile,  who  replied : 
"All  this  is  very  natural,  my  child,  but  it  would  be  hard 
work  to  comfort  Octavie  Epcrveil.  Such  stern  natures  as 
hers  have  to  bear  trouble  alone.  It's  the  old  story  of  the 
Spartan  boy,  with  such  people." 

A  few  mornings  after  this  conversation,  while  Madame 
Bouvreuil  and  Fanchette  were  at  market,  the  door-bell  rang 
violently.  Dora  answered  it,  and  returned  with  a  telegram 
in  her  hand.  I  knew  it  could  not  be  for  me,  but  still  my 
heart  throbbed  painfully  as  I  took  it  hastily  from  Dora's 
hands.  So  long  as  I  live,  the  arrival  of  a  telegram  will 
cause  me  this  suffering ;  for  one  sunny  June  morning,  I 
was  awakened  from  a  bright  dream,  to  read  one,  in  which 
I  expected  to  find  the  joyful  news  of  a  birth,  and  read 
death ! 

"  It  is  not  from  England,  Mademoiselle  Fauvette,"  said 
Dora,  with  affectionate  eagerness,  seeing  my  agitation ;  she 
knew  we  were  anxious  about  Helene's  health,  and  hastened 
to  relieve  my  mind  on  that  score. 

No ;  it  was  from  Naples,  where  Octave  was  with  Lord 
S.,  and  it  was  directed  to  Professor  Bouvreuil.  I  sent  Dora 
with  it  to  Institution  Eperveil,  telling  her  to  see  Mr.  Serin, 
if  possible,  first ;  but  on  her  return,  she  said  Madame  Eper 
veil  met  her,  and  told  her  she  would  attend  to  it,  that  she 
need  not  wait.  A  short  while  after,  Fauchette  returned 
from  market  alone  ;  she  said  that,  as  they  passed  Eperveil, 
Mr.  Serin  had  corne  out  to  meet  them,  and  told  Madame 
Bouvreuil  that  Madame  Eperveil  wished  to  see  her.  The 
dinner-hour  arrived,  but  neither  the  professor  nor  madame 
came.  Fanchette  slipped  off,  without  my  knowledge,  to 
the  Institution,  and  came  back  sobbing,  ready  to  break  her 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  269 

heart.  She  burst  into  my  room,  exclaiming:  "  Oh,  Made 
moiselle  Fauvette  —  Mademoiselle  Fauvette,  Monsieur 
Octave  is  dead !  The  poor  Dame  Bouvreuil !  The  poor 
Mademoiselle  Helene  !" 

And  she  sat  down  on  the  cushion  at  my  feet,  and  throw 
ing  her  apron  over  her  face,  sobbed  bitterly,  while  Dora 
and  I  gazed  at  her,  stupefied.  Dead !  Octave  Bouvreuil 
dead  !  It  seemed  impossible.  I  had  dreaded  some  inde 
finable  bad  news,  but  never  once  thought  of  death.  In 
deed,  it  was  hard  to  associate  death  and  the  gay,  bright 
Octave  Bouvreuil  together.  I  tried  to  make  the  girl  talk 
intelligibly,  but  the  poor  creature  was  too  stunned  to  know 
anything  clearly ;  all  I  could  gather  was,  that  Madame 
Bouvreuil  was  so  occupied  with  Madame  Eperveil  and  the 
professor  that  she  could  not  return  home.  Then  out  burst 
the  girl  again :  "  Oh,  the  poor  Dame  Bouvreuil,  she  bears 
it  like  a  Christian  angel,  as  she  is !" 

I  hurried  around  to  the  chateau,  not  knowing  in  what 
way  I  could  make  myself  of  service.  Tante  Cecile  and 
Mr.  Merle  were  already  at  the  Institution,  and  I  found 
Marie  pacing  the  salon  floor,  pressing  her  temples  with 
her  hands ;  her  large,  brown  eyes  were  horribly  dilated, 
and  around  them  were  deep  dark  rings ;  every  vestige  of 
color  bad  left  her  lips  and  cheeks,  and  every  feature  was 
pinched  and  convulsed — but  not  one  tear  fell.  When  she 
saw  me,  she  gazed  at  me  wildly ;  then,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  shivering  from  head  to  foot,  she  sank 
on  a  seat,  saying,  in  a  hoarse,  husky  whisper :  "  Is  it  not 
fearful  ?  And  to  die  so  terribly !" 

I  did  not  attempt  to  soothe  her ;  I  sat  in  silence  beside 
her.  What  mortal  sympathy  can  soothe  the  grief  we  feel 
for  the  death  of  those  we  love  ?  Resignation — patience ! 
What  idle  words !  All  that  is  human  rises  up  resentfully 

23* 


270  COMPENSA  TION; 

under  the  blinding  pain  of  the  blow  death  gives ;  the  soul 
lies  stunned,  and  the  poor  mortal  beats  helplessly  around. 

"But  God  gives  patience;  Love  learns  strength; 
And  Faith  remembers  promise." 

Yes ;  and  something  like  resignation  comes  at  last — a 
quiet  submission ;  but  always,  always  throughout  life 
'there  will  be  seasons  when  the  heart  will  suffer  ovrer 
again  the  sense  of  the  loss  as  keenly  as  at  the  first  mo 
ment  of  misery,  and  again  will  come  the  blinding,  reeling 
despair. 

I  knew  this ;  and  I  knew  also  how  wickedly  impatient 
all  mortal  soothings  make  the  truly  suffering ;  so  I  sat,  in 
silence,  before  her.  At  last,  I  thought  I  might  rouse  her 
by  making  her  talk,  and  I  told  her  I  knew  nothing  but 
that  he  was  dead ;  this  made  her  give  me,  though  un- 
.  willingly,  what  little  detail  they  knew  about  the  sad  affair. 
The  exertion,  however,  was  of  service  to  her,  and  took 
away  from  her  glazed  eyes  the  fearful,  stony  look  which 
had  alarmed  me. 

The  telegram  was  from  Lord  S.,  and  merely  contained 
these  words :  "  Mr  Octave  Bouvreuil  is  dead.  A  pistol 
went  off  accidentally  in  his  hands  an  hour  ago,  and  killed 
him."  A  few  days  after,  there  came  sadder  details.  It 
appeared  that  Octave  had  quarreled  with  some  one  of  the 
friends  of  Lord  S.,  who  had  insulted  him;  and  when  Oc 
tave  challenged  him,  the  young  man  refused  to  fight  him, 
giving  as  a  reason,  that  he  did  not  pay  his  gambling 
debts.  When  his  second  brought  him  back  this  offensive 
answer,  Octave  was  standing  by  a  table,  examining  a  pair 
of  dueling  pistols.  He  listened  to  the  answer  without 
making  any  other  reply  than  a  sneering  laugh.  His 
second  stood  by  the  table,  and  watched  him,  while  be 
loaded  the  pistols,  without  thinking  of  anything  but  of 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  271 

how  they  should  arrange  fhe  disagreeable  affair.  Octave 
put  the  pistol  to  his  temple,  saying,  coolly:  "Very  well, 
if  Captain  M.  will  not  do  me  the  favor  to  blow  out  my 
brains,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  do  it  myself." 

The  words  ended  as  the  pistol  was  fired,  and  the  unfor 
tunate  young  man  was  a  horribly  mangled  corpse,  before 
his  startled  companion  fairly  comprehended  the  words. 
At  first  the  affair  was  represented  as  an  accident ;  but, 
after  the  above  details  were  told,  there  was  little  doubt  in 
any  of  our  minds  about  the  real  truth — horrible  though  it 
might  be.  We  all  believed  that  Octave,  stung  to  the  quick 
by  the  double  insult,  and  the  thought  of  his  disgraceful 
position  rushing  suddenly  over  him,  had  been  rendered, 
for  the  instant,  insane  with  anguish  ;  in  this  state  of  mind 
he  had  rashly  chosen  his  own  selfish  way  of  ending  life 
and  all  its  difficulties.  This  sorrowful  story  was  merci 
fully  kept  from  his  family ;  no  one  connected  with  him, 
except  Tante  Octavie,  nearer  than  Mr.  Merle,  Tante  Cecile, 
and  I,  ever- knew  the  sad  truth  ;  we  never  even  told  Marie. 

Poor,  gay,  brilliant  Octave  Bouvreuil !  it  was  so  hard 
to  realize  his  being  dead !  Many  years  have  passed  since 
that  sunshiny  May  day  of  his  death ;  and  yet  even  now, 
sometimes  when  I  am  listening  to  some  passages  of  music, 
or  walking  in  the  grounds  of  Institution  Eperveil,  or  talk 
ing  in  the  balcony  window  of  my  old  salon  at  Madame 
Bouvreuil's,  I  start,  and  think  I  hear  his  musical  voice,  his 
keen,  sarcastic  laugh  ;  or  in  the  twilight  I  fancy  I  see  his 
graceful  form,  moving  to  and  fro,  under  the  old  horse- 
chestnut  tree,  smoking  his  meerschaum.  Death  is  hard  to 
realize  when  it  takes  place  under  one's  eyes — even  when 
the  glazed  eye,  and  cold  hand,  and  hushed  lips  of  the  one 
who  never  failed  to  respond  lovingly  to  you,  lie  before  you ; 
but  when  it  takes  place  far  from  you,  there  can  be  no  real 
ity  in  it  to  you ;  the  world  still  contains  the  living  memory, 
even  if  the  friend  lie  mouldering  in  the  earth. 


2T2  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


SUCH  a  sad,  sad  week  as  it  was,  after  the  tragic  news  of 
the  bright  May  day  !  Poor  Professor  Bouvreuil  lay  as 
one  stunned  with  a  heavy  blow,  and  Madame  Eperveil 
raged  like  a  wild  woman.  The  mother  bore  it  better  than 
any  one,  —  the  mother  whose  violent  outbursts  could  have 
been  more  readily  sympathized  with;  and  she  moved  about 
calmly  and  seriously,  encouraging  and  rousing  her  husband, 
and  endeavoring  to  assuage  Madame  Eperveil's  fury,  \yhose 
grief  was  like  that  of  "one  who  mourned  without  hope." 
Not  a  reproach  fell  from  Madame  Bouvreuil's-lips,  —  not  a 
word,  reminding  them  of  her  misgivings  and  remonstrances 
in  the  beginning;  she  who  should  have  been  sustained, 
had  to  be  a  support  ;  but  Tante  Cecile,  Marie,  and  I  did 
all  we  could  to  help  her.  When  alone  with  us  sometimes, 
she  would  let  Marie  and  me  caress  her,  and  then  give  up 
gently  to  her  grief;  a  quiet  flow  of  tears  was  all  ;  no  pas 
sionate,  hopeless  sobbing,  only  the  mortal  part  of  the 
mother  mourned  ;  her  calm,  naturally  well-poised  mind 
soon  righted  itself,  and  enabled  her  soul  to  rest  on  God. 

"Ah!"  she  said  one  evening,  "how  is  Helene  ever  to 
know  this  ?  I  have  tried  several  times  to  write  to  her, 
but  cannot  summon  up  the  courage.  Poor  child  !  I  fear 
she  is  very  miserable  in  her  dreary  home.  I  do  not  like 
the  tone  of  her  letters  ;  they  sound  not  only  sad,  but  hard. 
She  must  come  home,  and  shall,  directly  this  year's  en- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  273 

gagement  is  finished.  She  shall  never  leave  me  again  ; 
she  is  the  only  child  left  to  us,  and  we  must  guard  her 
well." 

We  were  sitting  in  my  little  salon  at  the  time.  I 
heard  a  knock  at  the  outer  door ;  Dora  went  out,  then 
returned  with  Fanchette,  who  said  Madame  Eperveil  was 
in  Madame  Bouvreuil's  salon,  and  wished  to  see  the 
ladies. 

"  She  wishes  to  see  Madame  Bouvreuil,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  mademoiselle  !"  answered  Fanchette,  stepping 
forward,  "  Madame  Eperveil  inquired  who  was  with  ma- 
dame,  and  then  said  particularly  that  she  wished  to  see 
all  the  ladies,  madame  and  mesdemoiselles ;  she  even  called 
me  back,  and  asked  me  if  I  understood  her." 

We  stared  at  each  other  with  surprise,  but,  without  mak 
ing  any  remark,  we  proceeded  to  the  salon.  I  had  not 
seen  Madame  Eperveil  since  the  sad  news  had  arrived/ 
She  looked  very  pale  and  gaunt, — like  some  great  Norse- 
woman  might,  after  a  combat.  She  bowed  in  a  stately 
manner  to  us  as  we  entered,  and  I  noticed  that  she  had  in 
her  hand  a  letter,  which  she  clutched  rather  than  held. 
She  was  in  the  deepest  mourning;  and,  as  I  saw  the  heavy, 
widow-like  weeds,  and  the  long,  thick  crepe  veil  hanging 
in  heavy  black  folds  around  her,  I  remembered  having 
heard  Madame  Bouvreuil  say  that  her  grief  for  Octave's 
death  was  greater  than  she  had  shown  after  any  other 
trouble  ;  arid  yet  I  knew  she  had  buried  her  father,  an  only 
sister,  and  an  excellent  husband,  with  a  calmness  amount 
ing  to  sang  froid  ;  and  these  were  all  estimable  people ; 
while  to  this  nephew,  whose  whole  life  had  been  a  disap 
pointment  and  a  mortification,  she  was  giving  all  the  pent- 
up  tears  of  her  life. 

We  sat  down,  but  Madame  Eperveil  did  not  remain  long 
seated ;  she  paced  up  and  down  the  room  with  long  strides. 


274  COMPENSATION; 

We  looked  from  her  to  Madame  Bouvreuil,  who  was  ob 
serving  her  sister-in-law's  movements  anxiously. 

"  Octavie  I"  exclaimed  Madame  Bouvreuil,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ?" 

Did  the  mother's  instincts  forebode  fresh  trouble?  Ma 
dame  Bouvreuil's  voice  startled  us,  it  was  so  hot  and  hiss 
ing.  Madame  Eperveil  came  up  to  her  sister-in-law,  and, 
taking  her  hand  with  a  trembling  grasp,  said,  in  a  hoarse, 
choked  voice,  "  Lolah,  do  not  be  alarmed ;  all  will  be,  must 
be  well." 

"  My  daughter,  my  daughter !"  shrieked  the  poor  mother ; 
then,  starting  up  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  she  added, 
in  a  quick,  low  tone  that  struck  to  my  heart,  "  Where  is 
she?  I  must  go  to  her  instantly.  Oh,  Octavie  Eperveil! 
have  you  taken  both  from  me  ?"  and  fell  senseless  to  the 
ground. 

.  I  called  Dora,  and  with  her  aid  we  lifted  the  poor  afflicted 
mother  on  the  sofa.  Madame  Eperveil  stood  dumb  ;  at 
last  she  turned  to  me,  and  said,  "  Mademoiselle  Fauvette, 
Helene  has  been  very  ill,  but  they  assure  me  she  is  better ; 
she  must  be,  for  she  is  now  on  her  way  home.  Here  is  the 
letter  I  received  a  half-hour  since  ;  be  so  good  as  to  read  it, 
for  I  see  my  sister-in-law  is  too  much  overcome  to  be  able 
to  assist  me  Avith  her  counsel." 

There  was  a  struggle  evidently  going  on,  to  hold  fast 
to  her  old,  grand  manner.  I  read  the  letter :  it  was  from 
Mr.  Landsnecht,  and,  like  himself,  cold,  dry,  and  proud;  he 
seemed  to  wish  to  resent  upon  the  whole  family  the  little 
trouble  Octave  had  caused  them,  without  feeling  any  sym 
pathy  for  them  as  the  greatest  sufferers. 

"  Under  present  circumstances,  madame,"  said  the  letter, 
after  telling  of  Helene's  illness,  "  Miss  Helene  Bouvreuil 
cannot  possibly  remain  in  our  family.  I  have  offered  her 
her  salary  in  full  for  the  year,  ending  the  coming  September, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  275 

the  whole  of  which  she  refuses  to  take ;  I  have  placed  the 
balance,  however,  subject  to  your  order,  at  my  banker's,  and 
you  can  draw  upon  Genton  &  Co.,  in  V.,  for  it,  whenever 
you  please  Of  course  she  is  ignorant  of  the  late  disgrace 
ful  event ;  I  did  not  wish  to  have  any  unnecessary  suffer 
ing  going  on  under  my  roof,  my  family  having  been  suffi 
ciently  annoyed  already.  Miss  B.  will  be  accompanied 
to  the  continent  by  my  valet,  George  Wilkins.  They  will 
.be  at  G.  on  the  seventeenth,  where  George  will  have  to 
leave  her,  as  he  is  on  the  way  for  Italy." 

"A  fine  specimen  of  manly  feeling !"  I  thought.  And  these 
were  Madame  EperveiPs  grand,  holiday  friends ;  for  whom 
she  had  sacrificed  the  comfort,  and  even  happiness,  of  every 
one  connected  with  her ;  and  to  be  acquainted  with  whom 
she  had  considered  such  an  advantage !  Step  by  step  her 
punishments  were  coming  thick  upon  her ;  but  how  vainly 
I  prayed  that  her  chastisements  need  not  strike  down  the 
guiltless  and  unoffending!  By  the  time  I  had  finished  read 
ing  the  letter,  Madame  Bouvreuil  had  revived  sufficiently  to 
hear  its  contents ;  and  the  expectation  of  Helene's  speedy 
arrival  relieved  somewhat  the  mother's  anxious  fears.  That 
day  was  the  sixteenth  of  May ;  the  next  would  be  the  day 
appointed  for  Helene  to  be  at  G. 

"And  to-morrow  night,  dear  Madame  Bouvreuil,"  I  said, 
"you  will  have  your  daughter." 

But  who  was  to  go  for  her  ?  It  should  be  some  one  who 
could  break  the  sad  news  to  her ;  for  it  would  be  not  only 
cruel,  but  dangerous,  to  let  her  arrive  at  that  house  of  mourn 
ing,  and  receive  the  news  suddenly,  in  her  delicate  state  of 
health. 

"Mr  Serin  will  go,"  said  Madame  Eperyeil;  "but -" 

and  her  voice  faltered. 

She  meant  to  say  that  a  man  was  not  the  proper  person 
to  perform  such  a  delicate  office  ;  and  yet  she  felt  too  help- 


2T6  COMPENSATION; 

less  to  offer  to  go  herself.  She,  the  capable  woman,  here  in 
the  real  emergency  of  the  family  was  useless. 

"  Madame  Eperveil,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  Merle,  Marie,  and  I 
will  go." 

"Thank  you!  thank  you!" exclaimed  Madame  Eperveil, 
in  a  tone  of  unfeigned  gratitude  ;  and  so  it  was  settled. 

The  next  morning,  in  the  early  boat,  our  excellent  pastor, 
Marie,  and  I  proceeded  on  our  way  down  the  lake,  to  G. 
That  glorious  lake  of  ours  !  But  we  were  both  too  anxious, 
to  notice  our  favorite  points  ;  in  vain  Mr.  Merle  tried  to  in 
terest  us.  The  terraced  vineyard  slopes  of  the  riante  Vau- 
dois,  and  the  rugged  but  picturesque  sublimity  of  the  Savoy 
Alps,  on  either  shore,  were  most  beautiful  to  behold,  as  the 
young  morning  sun,  in  streaming  down  out  of  the  Rhone 
gorge,  poured  his  rays  full  upon  them ;  but  we  could  not 
find  pleasure  in  looking  at  them.  We  even  let  the  chance 
of  seeing  Mont  Blanc  go  by  unheeded,  when  we  passed 
Merges ;  we  were  too  tightly  reined  up  with  indefinable 
anxieties,  to  look  patiently  at  anything.  As  we  neared  G  , 
Marie  said, — 

"  Fanny  Fauvette,  have  you  arranged  in  your  mind  how 
we  shall  tell  Helene  ?" 

"  No,"  I  replied ;  "  I  always  let  such  approaching  dis- 
agreeabilities  shape  themselves,  and  trust  to  the  good  God 
to  help  me." 

As  I  spoke,  I  saw  Mr.  Landsnecht's  valet  on  the  wharf, 
looking  out  for  us.  Good,  kind  old  George  Wilkius  ! 
There  was  more  of  the  real  gentleman  in  his  heart  than 
in  a  score  of  such  as  his  would-be  elegant  master..  He 
hurried  up  to  us  as  we  landed,  and  the  mixture  of  extreme 
respect  and  deep  sympathy  which  his  manner  showed 
was  very  touching. 

"Miss  Helene  is  at  the  Hotel  de  B.,"  he  said,  touching 
his  hat.  And  as  he  walked  up  to  this  -hotel,  which  was 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  277 

near  the  landing,  he  added  to  me,  "Ah,  Miss  Fauvette, 
the  poor  young  lady  is  very  pining'and  weakly.  She  has 
been  dangerously  ill ;  my  wife,  who  nursed  her,  thought 
she  never  would  raise  her.  She  knows  nothing  of  the 
dreadful  trouble  yet,  and  I  do  not  know  how  she  can  bear 
the  hearing  of  it." 

My  heart  sank  Avithin  me  as  we  ascended  the  stairs  to 
her  bedroom,  for  George  had  persuaded  her  to  lie  down 
soon  after  her  arrival,  which  had  been  early  in  the  morn 
ing.  She  was  lying  on  the  bed  when  we  entered,  but 
sprang  immediately  into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  a 
sudden,  quick  bound.  She  greeted  us  with  more  haste 
than  tenderness  ;  asked  after  her  mother,  and  when  the 
next  boat  would  leave,  all  in  one  sharp,  feverish  breath. 
She  was  very  much  altered ;  six  or  eight  months  in  an 
uncongenial  home,  leading  a  life  of  severe  application,  cut 
off  from  affectionate  companionship,  and  all  this  following 
suddenly  upon  her  disappointment  with  Kinnaird,  had 
made  sad  havoc  in  her  health.  Her  cheeks  were  almost 
purple ;  and  her  eyes,  formerly  so  tender  in  their  ex 
pression,  looked  like  balls  of  fire ;  her  merry  laugh,  her 
playful  ways,  her  graceful,  gentle  movements,  were  all 
gone.  I  never  could  have  imagined  Helene  Bouvreuil 
fierce,  but  fierce  she  was  now.  Every  nerve  seemed  throb 
bing  loud  enough  for  us  to  hear  its  beat,  so  tightly  was 
she  strung  up.  Marie  Merle  looked  at  me  hopelessly,  and 
while  Helene's  sharp,  quick  words  rattled  out  so  unnatu 
rally,  she  leaned  over  me  and  said,  "Oh,  Fanny,  bow  can 
we  ever  tell  her  ?  I  am  afraid  the  good  God  is  not  going 
to  help  us." 

"  I  wish  the  boat  would  leave  sooner !"  exclaimed  Helene, 
fretfully,  and  walking  impatiently  to  the  window.  She,  who 
used  to  be  so  patient  and  reasonable  !  "  An  hour,  do  you 
say?"  she  continued.  "Then  three  hours  more  to  reach 

24 


278  COMPENSATION; 

Peilz ;  and  I  am  so  tired  !  No,  no,  no  1"  she  answered, 
in  a  tone  of  extreme  irritability,  when  we  urged  her  to  rest 
on  the  bed.  "  No,  I  do  not  want  to  lie  down.  I  just  want 
to  see  my  mother,  for  I  am  so  weary !"  and  she  leaned  her 
head  on  her  hands,  as  if,  poor  tired  child,  she  wanted  "  to 
shut  her  leaves  and  be  a  bud  again  ;"  to  go  to  sleep,  like 
a  poor  sick  babe,  on  her  mother's  breast. 

We  sat  in  silence,  and  I  must  confess  that  my  courage 
was  fast  oozing  out;  I  began  to  feel  that  I  had  under 
taken  a  duty  quite  beyond  my  ability  to  perform.  Sud 
denly,  Ilelene  looked  up  fiercely,  as  she  heard  Marie  Merle 
and  me  exchanging,  in  a  low  whisper,  our  embarrassment 
as  to  how  we  should  approach  the  subject. 

"Girls,  "she  cried,  in  a  shrill  voice,  "what  is  the  matter? 
You  look  as  if  you  had  some  dreadful  thing  to  tell  me." 
Then,  seizing  me  tightly  by  either  wrist,  she  continued, 
in  a  hoarse,  thick  voice,  "  Fanny  Fauvette,  you  tell  me  ; 
but  oh,  in  God's  name,  do  not  tell  me  any  sad  thing  about 
my  mother — that  I  cannot  bear!" 

God  had  helped  us !  Grievous  as  was  the  sorrow,  she 
dreaded  a  worse  one,  and  that  was  a  gracious  help  indeed. 
I  do  not  know  what  I  said  ;  but  the  words  came  to  me, 
and  in  a  little  while  she  knew  all.  I  hoped  she  would 
weep,  but  she  did  not ;  she  listened  earnestly  and  quietly, 
her  brow  knitting  at  times  fiercely. 

"By  the  memory  of  your  own  mother,  Fanny  Fauvette, 

my  mother  is  not "  she  gasped,  and  the  veins  in  her 

forehead  grew  thick,  like  purple  cords. 

"  Your  mother,  darling,  is  quite  well ;  of  course,  she 
has  suffered  very  much  ;  but  she  bears  this  severe  visita 
tion  with  more  strength  than  your  father  or  Madame  Eper- 
veil ;  they  are " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  them  1"  she  interrupted  me,  impa 
tiently,  as  if  she  did  not  care  how  much  they  suffered,— , 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  279 

nor  did  she ;  "  but  my  mother,  my  mother !  Oh,  Fanny 
Fauvette,  take  me  at  once  to  my  mother !"  and  she  leaned 
her  hot  cheek  on  my  shoulder. 

"Poor  child!"  I  said;  but  a  short,  thick  sob  broke  my 
words,  for  Marie  and  I  were  weeping  enough  for  all  three. 
Helene  lifted  up  her  head  and  gazed  wildly  at  us.  Fear 
ing  that  our  sobs  had  given  her  fresh  alarm,  I  controlled 
myself,  and  added,  "  In  a  few  hours  you  will  be  with  your 
mother,  Helene  ;  her  hopes,  all  her  expectations  of  future 
happiness  in  this  life,  are  now  centred  in  you.  Last 
evening  we  were  talking  of  you,  and  she  said  almost  these 
very  words.  At  this  moment  she  is  looking  for  you,  and 
counting  the  instants  to  your  arrival  as  anxiously  as  you 
are."  . 

"  Yes,  take  me  to  her,"  she  said,  vaguely.  "My  mother, 
my  mother!"  she  murmured,  as  if  only  half  comprehend 
ing  my  words ;  and  she  leaned  her  face  on  my  shoulder 
again,  and  threw  her  arms  heavily  around  me. 

All  this  was  very  hard  for  me  to  bear ;  so  often,  in 
hours  of  lonely,  feverish  illness,  I  had  felt  that  same 
mother-longing, — had  cried  out  that  same  sad  cry  of 
mother,  my  mother ;  but,  alas,  in  vain  !  No  living  mother 
had  been  near  to  answer.  I  drew  the  suffering  girl  close 
to  my  breast,  and  wept  bitterly.  Presently  she  broke  from 
me  impatiently,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room  without 
noticing  us.  The  servant  announced  dinner.  I  went  down 
to  Mr.  Merle,  and  told  him  of  her  reception  of  the  news 
of  Octave's  death,  and  her  feverish,  dangerous  state.  The 
old  clergyman  shook  his  head. 

"How  I  wish  she  was  at  home!  The  boat  will  not 
leave  for  an  hour  yet."  And  we  both  looked  at  our 
watches,  as  if  by  looking  at  them  we  hoped  to  hurry 
time. 

Some  dinner  was  sent  up  into  the  bedroom,  but  Helene 


280  COMPENSA  TION; 

steadily  refused  everything;  she  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  or  stood  at  the  window,  which  looked  toward  the 
quai  de  B.,  in  silence.  It  was  a  long,  weary  hour.  At  last 
the  boat-bell  rang,  and  we  hurried  on  board.  The  voyage 
was  more  silent  than -ours  of  the  morning.  Helene  paced 
up  and  down  the  deck  incessantly,  leaning  on  Mr.  Merle's 
arm,  whom  she  had  received  as  if  she  had  only  parted 
from  him  yesterday. 

Thank  God !  suspense  does  end  at  last  in  some  way. 
After  a  painful  endurance  of  the  three  hours,  all  of  us 
looking  stealthily  at  Helene, — fearing  the  worst,  and  un 
certain  what  that  worst  might  be, — the  old  towers  of 
Peilz  church  rose  up  between  us  and  the  northeast  sky, 
its  gray  turrets  and  peaked  roof  lightened  with  the  rising 
moon.  In  a  little  while  after,  Helene  was  in  her  mother's 
arms.  "Now,"  I  thought,  "  she  will  surely  weep."  But 
no  such  blessed  relief  came ;  she  hugged  her  mother  con 
vulsively  to  her,  held  her  off  at  arms'  length,  and  looked 
at  her  with  those  terrible,  glaring  eyes ;  then  clutched  her 
again,  and  kissed  her  with  a  fierce  moan,  that  sounded 
more  as  if  it  came  from  some  wounded  animal  than  from 
a  gentle,  beautiful  human  being. 

"  I  cannot  bear  this,"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil  at  last ; 
"the  child  does  not  know  what  she  is  doing." 

Helene  did  not  notice  her  father,  nor  Tante  Octavie ; 
nor  did  she  observe  her  mother's  anxiety,  nor  hear  her 
words ;  she  was  just  filled  with  one  set,  fixed  idea — the 
possession  of  her  mother. 

"  Helene,"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil,  taking  her  daugh 
ter  by  the  hand,  and  looking  her  steadily  in  the  face, 
with  as  much  calmness  as  she  could  command,  "  come 
with  me  into  my  room,  darling;  let  us  bid  good  night  to 
our  friends;  we  are  both  tired,  birdie,  and  need  rest." 

These  last  words  were  said  so   solemnly  that  they 


OR,   ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  281 

sounded  in  my  ears  like  a  mournful  presentiment,  and  I 
looked  hastily  toward  Madame  Eperveil,  who  was  gazing 
at  Madame  13ouvreu.il  with  a  mute  expression  of  horror, 
which  proved  to  me  that  the  words  had  found  the  same 
mournful  echo  in  her  heart  that  they  had  in  mine.  Helene 
looked  at  her  mother  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  she  was 
trying  to  catch  the  meaning  of  her  words  ;  then  rose  me 
chanically,  as  her  mother  put  her  arm  about  her  slen 
der  waist,  and  went  straight  out  of  the  room,  without 
noticing  any  one.  A  sad  night  followed,  and  sadder  days ; 
the  fever  raged ;  and  the  poor  girl,  at  last,  grew  insen 
sible  even  to  her  mother's  presence.  The  sounds  of 
the  carriages,  on  the  street  fronting  the  house,  would 
set  her  to  shrieking  fiercely ;  she  imagined  they  were 
carrying  her  mother  from  her;  so  I  proposed  she 
should  be  taken  into  my  bedroom,  which,  being  in  the 
back  part  of  the  house,  was  free  from  all  such  exciting 
noises. 

There  she  lay,  unconscious  of  the  change,  noticing  no 
one  ;  not  even  the  tender,  heart-broken  mother,  who  gazed 
at  her  as  if  her  whole  soul  would  pour  out  in  one  flood 
of  mother-love  to  save  her;  nor  the  haggard,  glazed-eyed 
Tante  Octavie,  who  would  come  into  the  room,  and  look 
at  her  for  a  few  moments,  then  turn  away  with  a  look 
and  a  low  moan,  as  if  God's  judgments  were  swift  and 
keen.  Night  and  day  we  watched  beside  her,  and  ex 
amined  Dr.  Falcon's  anxious  look  earnestly.  At  last  she 
ceased  talking  ;  she  appeared  tired  out,  and  she  rolled 
weakly  to  and  fro,  and  moaned  sorrowfully.  Toward 
"nightfall,  one  day,  she  fell  into  a  sort  of  stupor,  and  I 
thought  she  was  dying.  Dr.  Falcon  held  her  pulse  a  few 
moments ;  then,  resting  her  hand  softly  on  the  coverlet, 
he  whispered,  "If  she  sleeps  now,  she  will  be  better." 

Madame  Bouvreuil,  who  had  been  watching  him 
24* 


282  COMPENSATION; 

eagerly,  tottered,  and,  but  for  his  grasp,  would  have 
fallen  to  the  ground, — she  had  fainted.  He  lifted  her  up 
in  his  arms  and  carried  her  out  of  the  room,  and  Marie 
Merle  accompanied  him.  Shortly  after  he  returned,  say 
ing  that  she  had  revived,  but  that  he  and  the  professor 
had  persuaded  her  to  take  a  little  rest ;  accordingly  he 
had  given  her  a  calming  draught,  and  Marie  Merle  was 
to  stay  with  her.  He  then  gave  me  the  directions  for 
the  night.  He  was  forced  to  leave,  as  lie  had  a  patient 
who  would  probably  need  him  all  night ;  but  he  would 
tell  Fanchette  where  he  was  going,  that  I  might  send  for 
him  if  I  saw  any  change. 

"  If  He'lene  continues  to  sleep,  I  shall  have  much  more 
hope,"  he  whispered;  "and  the  longer  that  sleep  is,  the 
better.  I  will  tell  Dora  and  Fanchette  to  keep  perfect 
silence  in  the  house.  I  shall  call  in  after  I  leave  my  other 
patient ;  but  I  do  not  think  you  will  need  me  before,  for 
she  is  sleeping  quietly  and  heavily  now."  And  the  kind 
physician,  after  leaning  over  He'lene,  and  gazing  earnestly 
at  her,  nodded  encouragingly  at  me,  and  left  the  room. 

Dora  lighted  the  night-lamp,  for  I  was  too  trembling  to 
do  it ;  and  her  firm,  neat  hand  was  always  better  in  such 
little  arrangements  than  mine.  Then  she  went  down 
stairs,  to  keep  the  house  still.  If  I  needed  anything,  I 
was  to  ring ;  but  no  one  was  to  enter  the  apartments, 
without  a  summons  from  me,  until  the  doctor's  return. 
The  door  closed  noiselessly,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  the 
poor  sick  girl,  whose  hope  of  earthly  life  hung  on  a  chance 
slighter  than  a  thread. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  283 


CHAPTER  XX IV. 

BETWEEN   LIFE   AND   DEATH. 

THE  night-lamp  threw  a  strange,  weird  light  over  the 
chamber ;  it  was  a  porcelain  lantern,  and  the  little  cup  of 
oil,  on  which  the  tiny  taper  floated,  was  inside  of  it; 
from  an  opening,  about  two  inches  square,  proceeded  the 
faint  light  which  touched  some  articles  in  the  room  with 
as  clear  and  strong  a  beam  as  its  little  strength  possessed ; 
the  other  rays  were  very  faint.  Brave  little  taper  !  there 
it  toiled  quietly  on  in  that  sea  of  oil,  doing  its  very  best ; 
but  that  best  was  such  a  little.  I  looked  from  it  on  the 
beautiful  girl,  swimming  noiselessly  on  her  sea,  just  hover 
ing  between  life  and  death ;  and  she  had  done  her  best 
also ;  poor  child  !  her  best  and  strongest,  which  had  been 
of  so  little  avail, — like  this  poor  taper,  apparently  weak 
and  powerless.  I  bent  close  down  to  her ;  she  lay  so 
quiet,  and  in  the  vague  light  of  the  night-lamp  the  pallor 
on  her  face  looked  so  like  death,  that  my  heart  stood  still 
with  apprehension ;  but  a  slight  quiver  of  the  soft,  tender 
lips,  a  faint  thread  of  warm  breath  which  crept  from  the 
pinched  nostrils,  told  me  that  life  still  hovered  over  the 
frail  nest  of  the  body.  That  beautiful  mouth  !  even  all 
her  sorrow  and  disappointment  could  not  harden  it ;  there 
were  no  lines  left  around  it  by  the  misery  she  had  suf 
fered  ;  no  deep  marks  of  the  spasmodic  sobs  wrung  from 
her  in  the  lonely  hours  of  illness,  when  death  seemed  too 
hard  to  bear,  far  away  from  her  darling  mo.ther  and  all 


284  COMPENSATION; 

she  loved.  The  lips  were  not  full  and  red,  as  they  had 
been  in  the  first,  fresh  flush  of  her  beauty ;  but  still  the 
exquisite  expression  hung  around  them,  like  a  faint  light 
flickering  and  playing  withifl  an  alabaster  vase ;  and  the 
delicate  form  of  the  mouth,  the  bow-shaped  upper  lip  and 
soft  curve  of  the  under  one,  with  the  rounding  chin, 
showed  even  better  than  when  those  lips  had  been  so  rich 
and  pouting  in  their  loveliness.  Then  the  clear,  trans 
parent  eyelids,  with  the  tearful,  tender  drooping,  and  the 
delicate  tracery  of  veins  in  them ;  and  the  soft,  velvety 
skin,  which  seemed,  in  the  quiet  sleep,  almost  untouched 
by  suffering;  but  the  nose — part  Jewish  part  Italian  in 
its  form,  as  I  have  mentioned  before — was  the  only  feature 
that  showed  the  pain  of  mind  and  body  the  poor  girl  had 
suffered  ;  the  nostrils  looked  pinched,  and  the  bridge  of 
the  nose  stood  up  clear  and  sharp.  Her  soft  chestnut 
hair  was  turned  off  from  her  temples,  showing  there  also 
a  faint  tracery  of  blue  veins ;  one  thick  tress  had  crept 
out  from  the  little  cap,  and  lay  in  a  rich  curl  on  her  neck. 
In  the  tossing  of  her  delirium,  during  the  day,  she  had 
unloosened  tbe  soft  cap,  and  the  fastenings  of  her  night 
gown,  leaving  part  of  her  beautiful  throat  bare ;  when 
she  had .  fallen  into  the  stupor  preceding  the  sleep,  Dr. 
Falcon  had  said,  as  I  attempted  to  close  it,  "  Let  her  alone, 
my  child  ;  the  touch  of  a  hand  may  prevent  the  Nsleep  on 
which  depends  so  much." 

"  Beautiful  Helene !"  I  thought ;  "  and  must  such  love 
liness  fall  a  sacrifice  to  obstinate,  wicked  selfishness  ?"  A 
slight  noise  in  my  salon,  which  was  adjoining  the  bed 
room,  startled  me.  The  poor,  anxious  mother,  I  imagined, 
had  awakened,  and  had  insisted  upon  coming  to  wait 
there  the  issue  of  the  sleep.  I  arose  softly,  and  went  to 
see  who  it  was.  What  was  my  vexation  to  see  entering 
the  door  the  hard,  tall  figure  of  Tante  Octavie  I  Of  all 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  285 

assistants  or  companions,  she  was  certainly  the  last  one 
I  should  have  asked  for.  She  held  a  shaded  lamp  in  her 
hand,  and  was  busied  in  shutting  softly  the  latch  of 
the  door ;  but  I  noticed  that  her  strong,  firm  hand  trem 
bled  ;  and  as  she  turned  toward  me,  I  saw  that  her  chis 
eled  face  was  actually  pinched  and  livid  with  the  anxiety 
she  felt. 

She  must  have  noticed  an  expression  of  surprise  and  dis 
content  on  my  face,  for  she  tried  to  smile  affectionately ; 
but  it  was  a  grirn  attempt,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to 
me,  in  a  strange,  pleading  manner,  that  went  to  my  heart. 
I  took  it  quickly ;  it  was  very  cold.  That  brave,  strong 
woman  !  It  hurt  me  to  see  her  standing  there  in  such  a 
position,  and  my  first  impulse  was  to  put  my  arms  around 
her, — it  was  Like  embracing  Mont  Blanc ;  then,  taking  the 
lamp  from  her,  and  setting  it  upon  the  brass  top  of  the  por 
celain  stove,  I  led  her  to  the  sofa,  where  I  made  her  sit 
down.  She  submitted  willingly  to  my  impulsive  actions  of 
tenderness,  and  rested  her  head  for  a  few  moments  on  my 
shoulder,  which  seemed  as  small  as  that  of  a  child,  when 
compared  with  her.  It  was  so  touching  to  see  this  hard, 
cold,  stern  woman  not  only  accepting,  but  almost  asking 
for,  sympathy  and  kindness ;  and  at  my  hands  to  receive 
it, — the  little,  nervous  Fanny  Fauvette ;  for  whose  deli 
cate  health,  and  toward  whose  little  ways  and  peculiari 
ties  she  had  shown  so  much  impatience  and  even  cruel 
harshness. 

We  remained  silent  for  some  time ;  and  I  began  to  feel 
awkward  and  startled  at  the  liberty  I  had  taken,  in  treat 
ing  her  as  my  feelings  had  prompted ;  knowing,  by  sad 
experience,  how  hard  it  was  to  approach  such  proud  peo 
ple,  who  are  apt  to  take  an  outburst  of  love  sometimes  as 
an  affectation,  or  even  sometimes — so  warped  is  their  na 
ture — they  receive  it  as  an  insult  and  humiliation.  At 


286  COMPENSATION; 

last  she  lifted  her  head,  and,  with  every  feature  twitching 
with  painful  sharpness,  she  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
which  thrilled  through  me,  "  She  will  not  die  ?"  She  ad 
dressed  me  as  if  I  were  a  little  high-priest  of  Providence, 
and  knew  the  future.  "  Ah  !"  she  continued,  "  it  is  so  hard 
to  kill  women  ;  she  will  not  surely  die  !" 

I  raised  my  finger  to  my  lips,  as  a  caution  against  talk 
ing  ;  then,  speaking  in  a  faint  whisper  in  her  ear,  I  an 
swered,  "  She  is  sleeping  quietly ;  but  we  must  not  make 
any  noise,  or  we  may  disturb  this  sleep,  on  which  her  life 
depends." 

Tante  Octavie  drew  me  down  to  her ;  I  knelt  on  the  foot- 
cushion  beside  her,  and  she  approached  her  lips  in  the  same 
manner  to  my  ear,  and  said,  "  Suffer  me  to  stay  here, 
Mademoiselle  Fanny.  I  cannot  endure  to  be  so  far  from 
her.  I  will  be  quiet ;  the  mother  has  no  remorse  on  her 
conscience  ;  she  can  wait  patiently  and  quietly  ;  but  mine 
will  not  let  me  have  peace.  I  shall  go  wild  if  I  have  to 
stay  in  the  other  part  of  the  house.  Suffer  me  to  stay 
here." 

This  woman,  accustomed  from  childhood  to  command, 
to  order,  and  receive  unconditional  obedience ;  who  bad 
treated  me  always  with  such  chilling  hauteur,  because  I 
had  dared  to  have  an  opinion  of  my  own,  dared  to  be  nerv 
ous  and  feminine,  was  now  as  submissive  and  imploring 
as  a  child  to  me  !  Her  humiliation,  her  acknowledgment 
of  her  remorse,  almost  broke  my  heart;  it  pained  and 
grieved  me  more  than  I  could  express  ;  for  although  her 
obstinate  determination  to  sacrifice  Helene,  and  her  sense 
less,  wicked  indulgence  of  the  poor,  wretched  Octave,  had 
at  the  time  made  me  feel-bitter  resentment,  and  wish  every 
hard  judgment  possible  for  her  punishment,  the  suffering 
she  had  endured  after  the  sad  result  was  shown — her  keen 
mortification  and  remorse,  and  the  tender,  softening  effect 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  287 

it  had  produced  on  her  character — melted  all  my  anger; 
indeed,  to  see  her  grief,  and  hear  her  self-condemning* 
words,  seemed  wrong,  and  I  hastened  to  show  my  respect 
ful  regard  and  sympathy  for  this  woman,  whom  I  had 
almost  hated  some  months  before. 

"  Certainly,"  I  replied,  almost  forgetting  the  low,  cau 
tious  tone  of  voice,  in  my  desire  to  show  her  all  the  atten 
tion  my  respect  exacted.  "  Certainly ;  you  may  stay  here 
if  you  wish,  dear  Madame  Eperveil.  Stretch  yourself  out 
on  this  sofa,  and  make  yourself  comfortable." 

And  with  affectionate  constraint  I  made  her  put  her  feet 
upon  the  sofa,  and  extend  herself  out  at  full  length.  I 
placed  a  soft  pillow  under  her  head,  and  threw  over  her 
long,  iron-looking  limbs  a  large  shawl.  She  looked  at  me 
keenly,  but  I  did  not  now  mind  her  look;  her  days  of  cold 
contempt  and  dictatorial  lecturing  were  over,  and  the  ten 
derness  and  affectionate  caresses  of  Fanny  Fauvette,  at 
which  she  had  so  often  sneered,  were  now  grateful  and  re 
freshing  to  her.  Poor  Tante  Octavie  !  As  I  stood  beside 
her,  smoothing  back  from  her  high  manly  forehead  the  mag 
nificent  tresses  of  her  blonde  hair,  in  which  the  silver 
threads  were  so  thickly  mingled,  I  saw  a  large  hot  tear  creep 
from  under  the  sharp-cut  eyelid  ;  this  was  too  much  forme 
to  bear, — I  stooped  and  kissed  Tante  Octavie.  She  put  her 
arms  around  me,  and  held  me  for  a  few  moments  close  to  her 
breast ;  we  said  not  a  word  to  each  other,  nor  did  we  need 
to  ;  we  were  good,  strong  friends  for  evermore  ;  that  tear 
had  wiped  away  all  remains  of  Fanny  Fauvette's  resent 
ment.  Soon  after  .1  arose  from  beside  her,  and  went  into 
the  bedroom,  to  resume  my  watch  by  the  sleeping  girl. 

That  long,  long  night !  how  it  recalled  a  sadder  night ; 
a  night  of  loving  watchfulness,  that  brought  no  morning 
in  this  life  to  the  watched;  a  night  of  silent,  heart-break 
ing  farewell,  when  the  mother  floated  off  into  eternity. 


288  CO  HP  ENS  A  TION; 

looking  back  longingly  to  her  desolate  child  ;  no  word,  no 
moan ;  only  a  tight  grasp  of  the  hand,  a  yearning  gaze, 
which  receded  and  receded  in  the  distance,  until  the  poor 
wearied  soul  was  released  from  the  mortal  cords  of  loving 
longing  that  held  it  fast  bound  to  earth,  and  was  free! 
But,  alas !  the  child  was  left  desolate  and  alone  in  life. 
Ah,  Fanny  Fauvette,  memory  is  s"o  keen !  But  swallow 
down  thy  agony,  child ;  take  thy  absinthe  draught  as  God 
gives  it ;  there  has  been  no  mother  since  then  to  sit  beside 
thee  in  life,  and  drink  the  bitter,  leaving  thee  the  sweet. 

"  Faisant  pour  toi  deux  parts,  dans  cette  vie  amere, 
Toujours  a  bu  1'absinthe,  et  t'a  laissce  le  miel." 

Bury  thy  thin  face  in  thy  hands,  rock  with  noiseless  but 
keen  agony  to  and  fro.  Is  it  not  hard  to  bear,  child? 
Very  hard !  The  sufferings  of  deep,  true  love  are  as 
bitter  in  their  pain  as  keen  remorse. 

Many  times  I  would  look  up  and  see  Tante  Octavie  rest 
ing  against  the  door-casing,  and  gazing  earnestly  at  me ; 
then  I  would  remember  that  her  remorse  needed  soothing; 
for  while  the  sorrow  of  love  is  too  silent  and  deep  for  hu 
man  consolation,  remorse  is  so  biting,  so  active, — like  a 
fierce  blister  on  the  skin,  it  must  be  nursed  and  tended 
gently  and  carefully.  So  I  would  arise  and  go  in  to  the 
suffering  woman,  and  persuade  her  to  lie  down  again, 
while  I  soothed  her  with  soft  caresses,  and  assured  her  of 
the  well-doing  of  her  niece.  And  well-doing  it  was,  for  the 
girl  was  sleeping  all  through  the  night;  a  calm,  gentle 
sleep ;  a  deep  slumber  of  tired  nature ;  the  crisis  was  over, 
I  felt  sure. 

The  brilliant  mountain  sunrise  shot  little  crimson  rays 
into  the  room,  through  the  crevices  of  the  shutters,  fleck 
ing  fantastically  the  white  window-curtains.  The  taper 
still  burned  patiently  on, — a  fit  type  of  useful,  quiet  little 


OR,  ALWAYS  A    FUTURE.  289 

things  in  this  life  ;  trembling  and  wavering  had  been  its 
light,  but  honestly  it  had  toiled  on.  Let  thy  light  die  out 
now,  little  taper ;  thy  work  is  over ;  we  need  thee  no  more, 
for  God's  blessed  sun  has  risen. 

Helene  still  slept ;  and  Tante  Qctavie,  worn  out  with 
keen,  fierce  anxiety,  had  toward  daybreak — when  entirely 
assured  of  her  niece  being  out  of  danger — fallen  into  a 
heavy  slumber,  under  the  magnetizing  influence  of  my 
hands,  smoothing  down  the  thick  bands  of  her  hair  over  her 
forehead.  Outside  the  house,  the  busy  swallows  chirped, 
fluttering  around  the  old  convent  tower  and  the  eaves  over 
hanging  my  windows.  I  knew  that  the  long  branches  of 
the  acacia,  with  its  tender  young  leaves,  were  waving  gra 
ciously  to  and  fro,  and  the  lake  rippling  and  glittering 
under  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun.  I  felt  the  sweet 
warm  breath  of  spring  steal  in  encouragingly  through  the 
breaks  and  divisions  of  the  shutters ;  life,  warm,  loving 
life,  flowed  its  precious  current  around  me  ;  there  was  the 
calm,  regular  breathing  of  the  sick  girl,  so  sweet  to  listen 
to,  and  from  the  adjoining  room,  even  through  the  nearly 
closed  door,  came  the  sound  of  Tante  Octavie's  slumber. 

A  few  minutes  after,  a  low  bustle  was  heard  down-stairs, 
and  then  the  doctor  came  up.  He  took  his  seat  by  Helene's 
bedside,  without  saying  anything  to  me,  but  pressing  my 
hand  aud  patting  me  on  the  head.  Tante  Octavie  crept 
into  the  arm-chair  on  the  other  side,  and  drew  me  to  the 
little  cushion  at  her  feet,  making  me  put  my  head  on  her 
knees,  while  her  large  white  hands  rested  on  my  temples 
and  cheeks  with  a  loving  ease,  as  if  they  had  always  prac 
ticed  such  gracious  works  of  tenderness  ;  and  there  we  sat, 
awaiting  the  girl's  awaking.  The  mother  stole  in,  and 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  where  the  eyes  of  her  daughter 
might  first  rest  on  her,  and  Marie  Merle  stood  beside  her. 

At  last  it  came,  this  blessed  return  to  life  and  those  who 
25 


290  COMPENSA  TION; 

loved  her  so  tenderly.  She  opened  her  eyes  languidly, 
gazed  around  as  if  bewildered ;  then,  seeing  her  mother's 
half-smiling,  half-weeping  look,  she  stretched  out  her  arms 
feebly,  and  burst  into  tears.  Mother  and  daughter  lay  in 
each  other's  arms,  while  we  all  stole  quietly  out  of  the 
room.  Yes,  all,  even  the  skillful  doctor. 

"  They  can  do  without  any  of  us,"  said  he,  wiping  his 
eyes  stealthily;  "nature,  mother-love  shall  do  all,  with 
God's  help." 

And  we  turned  quietly  away  from  that  bedroom,  each 
one  drawing  a  long  breath,  as  if  we  felt  that  the  avenging 
angel  no  longer  hovered  above  the  roof.  God's  swift, 
sharp  judgments  were  now  lovingly  averted,  and  sweet 
mercy,  rather  than  stern  justice,  reigned  over  us. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  291 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

THE     CUP     TAKEN     AWAY. 

THOUGH  the  agony  of  suspense  was  over,  and  the  dread 
of  immediate  danger  past,  still  we  did  not  feel  secure. 
Any  one  who  has  ever  watched  during  a  dangerous  illness, 
knows  so  well  the  keen  anxiety  that  comes  after  the  first 
burst  of  joy,  when  the  crisis  is  passed.  The  breath  of  life 
seems  so  weak  and  faint,  and  the  feeling  is  that  which  one 
might  have  when  looking  at  an  unconscious  child  passing 
over  a  swift,  deep  current,  on  a  broken,  swaying  plank ; 
or,  the  carrying  of  a  lighted  taper  in  a  long,  dark  corridor, 
through  which  a  stormy  night  wind  is  surging  to  and  fro. 
But  these  anxious  days  passed,  thank  God !  and  then  other 
days  came — days  of  convalescence ;  then  came  the  sweet 
June  weather,  just  bordering  enough  on  its  blossomy  fore 
runner,  May,  to  retain  its  fragrance  and  none  of  its  capri- 
ciousness.  On  one  of  these  delicious  days,  Dora's  strong- 
arms  carried  our  darling  out  on  to  my  gallery,  and  laid 
her  in  a  brilliant-colored  Mexican  hammock,  which  swayed 
quietly  to  and  fro  in  the  sweet  morning  breeze. 

Everything  around  us  seemed  pulsating  with  life.  The 
little  vegetable-garden  beneath  us  looked  very  promising, 
with  its  neat  rows  of  all  manner  of  green  things,  which 
seemed  to  grow  visibly.  A  small  vineyard  covered  one 
slope  in  the  distance,  not  too  far,-  however,  to  send  us 
fragrant  promises  of  the  winy  autumn  fruit.  The  acacia 
waved  its  long,  graceful  blossoms  through  the  air,  and 


292  COMPENSATION; 

threw  down  a  snowy  shower  of  the  flower-petals  on  the 
bridge  walk;  while  the  bright  sun  crept  in  between  its 
tender  foliage  and  the  thick  branches  of  the  horse-chestnut 
tree,  and  lay  in  breaks  on  the  gravel  walk,  and  broken 
column,  and  old  stone  wall,  and  did  its  best  to  beam  very 
warm  rays  on  Madame  Bouvreuil's  pet  orange-tree,  which 
stood  in  a  pretty  stone  vase,  of  the  graceful  Etruscan  form, 
at  the  foot  of  the  walk.  The  swallows, 

"Those  busy  masons  of  the  eaves," 

wheeled  around  the  old  convent  tower,  then  darted  off  to 
the  orchard  on  the  border  of  the  lake,  where  stood  a  fruit- 
tree,  the  topmost  branch  of  which  was  formed  like  a  cross, 
or  at  least  so  it  appeared  to  me  in  the  distance  that  my 
balcony  was  from  it.  When  I  first  came  to  Peilz  I  had 
noticed  it;  I  had  often  looked  at  it  with  gloomy  fore 
bodings,  regarding  it  as  a  stern  admonisher  of  future  visi 
tations  of  grief.  Sometimes  my  sorrowful  fancy  read  it 
one  way,  sometimes  another.  Often  it  waved  before  me 
in  the  golden  violet  sunset  of  summer,  saying, 

"Thou  canst  not  flee  from  thy  cross." 

Then  it  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  autumn  winds,  a  red, 
flaming  branch,  murmuring 

"  Thy  cross,  thy  new  cross,  is  nearly  ripe  :  be  ready." 

And,  again,  when  I  would  feel  more  hoping  and  joyful,  it 
seemed  to  whisper,  consolingly,  as  its  red  and  yellow  leaves 
fluttered  down  to  the  ground  in  a  November  wind, 

"See,  I  am  fading  with  autumn;  with  me  will  fade  thy  last  cross." 

And  once,  I  remember,  while  I  stood  looking  at  it,  think 
ing  this,  a  pretty  little  bird  settled  on  it,  knocking  off  its 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  293 

ruddy  leaves ;  then  he  chirped  a  clear,  bright  song,  and 
soared  off  up  into  mid-air.  Those  gloomy  days  were  gone, 
I  trusted,  forever;  but  my  "banner  branch,'1''  as  Marie 
playfully  called  it,  stood  bravely  up  in  the  broad  sunrays, 
covered  with  little  budding  leaves  and  some  pink  blossoms, 
a  bright,  beautiful  cross,  telling  me  now  of  hope  and  faith, 
and  giving  me  a  promise  of  gracious  God-help,  no  matter 
what  the  burden  might  be.  Two  or  three  little  boats 
stood  on  the  blue  mirror  of  our  lake,  on  which  lay  the 
broad  masses  of  sunlight,  and  they  looked  like 

"Painted  ships  upon  a  painted  ocean." 

The  mountains  of  the  opposite  Savoy  shore  towered  up, 
the  snows  still  lay  in  unmelting  firmness  on  some  of  the 
peaks,  and  the  ravines  looked  like  long  white  snakes, 
creeping  and  winding  down  to  the  lake.  Helene  lay  in  a 
silence  that  seemed  refreshing;  for  the  little  sighs  she 
drew  once  in  awhile  were  accompanied  by  a  gentle,  happy 
smile,  as  if  they  were  luxurious  sighs,  indicative  of  sweet 
content.  Her  mother  sat,  in  my  American  rocking-chair, 
close  beside  her ;  and  Marie  Merle  and  I  leaned  on  the 
balcony  bench,  and  talked  of  all  manner  of  pleasant  things 
quietly  together. 

"  Where  are  you  all  ?"  cried  a  familiar  voice  from  the 
salon;  "the  bird  has  flown,  and  the  whole  aviary  with 
her." 

"Not  far,  Tante  Octavie,"  answered  Marie,  springing 
up  to  meet  her.  "  We  are  here,  on  Fanny  Fauvette's 
gallery." 

"You  there  too,  mocking-bird?"  said  Tante  Octavie, 
stepping  out  of  the  window-door  on  to  the  gallery.  "  Come 
here,  girl,"  she  said,  "  and  kiss  me.  Marie  Merle,  I  believe 
I  have  not  kissed  you  since  you  were  a  droll  little  serious- 
eyed  baby." 

25* 


294  COMPENSATION; 

Marie  put  her  arras  around  Tante  Octavie,  without  say 
ing  a  word ;  but  the  hearty  hug  and  half-dozen  kisses  she 
gave  her  showed  how  deeply  touched  she  felt  by  the  old 
lady's  unwonted  tenderness.  I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  do 
the  same ;  but  since  the  night  we  had  watched  Helene 
together,  I  had  not  dared  to  venture  on  caressing  the  old 
dame ;  I  was  afraid  she  would  think  I  wished  to  presume 
on  her  burst  of  confidence  and  tenderness,  wrung  from  her 
by  the  powerful  emotion  she  was  then  experiencing.  I 
did  not  want  to  stop  a  good  beginning  of  friendship  be 
tween  us.  She  shook  hands  with  us  all,  and  kissed 
Helene  affectionately. 

"  Take  this  rocking-chair  of  Fanny's,  will  you  not,  Octa 
vie  ?"  asked  Madame  Bouvreuil. 

"No,  Lolah  dear,"  she  replied;  "I  am  in  a  very  good 
company  beside  this  little  lady."  And  she  sat  down  on  a 
chair  which  stood  beside  the  low  bench  of  the  window,  on 
which  I  had  seated  myself,  and  she  rested  her  hand  famil 
iarly  on  my  shoulder. 

Now,  if  Tante  Octavie  had  been  any  one  else  I  liked  as 
well,  I  would  have  leaned  my  head  on  her  knee,  which 
stood  in  tempting  proximity  to  me  ;  I  felt  a  strong  desire 
to  do  so,  but  I  thought  "  Affliction  has  caught  her,  and 
caged  her,  and  trimmed  her  nails,  it  is  true,  but  she  is  only 
half  tamed,  may-be.  I  will  take  good  care  not  to  provoke 
the  old  lioness  nature  in  her." 

It  does  not  do  to  go  beyond,  or  even  be  equal  in  tender 
ness  to  such  people  ;  it  is  better  to  wait  always  for  them 
to  take  the  lead  in  sentimental  matters ;  and  yet,  day  by 
day,  I  felt  more  and  more  drawn  to  Tante  Octavie ;  and, 
as  Tante  Cecile  said,  when  I  talked  to  her  about  it,  it 
seemed  as  if  she  did  also  to  me.  It  was  hard  work,  real 
self-denial,  for  me  to  keep  my  hands  off  of  the  hard,  stern 
old  woman.  I  wanted  to  smooth  her  beautiful  hair,  to 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  295 

take  her  large  hands  in  mine,  and  rest  my  cheek  on  their 
fair,  broad  palms ;  I  wanted  to  wait  on  her,  and  serve  her, 
and  grew  daily  to  watch  for  her  coming,  and  detained  her 
from  going,  when  formerly  the  bare  sound  of  her  voice 
was  enough  to  stop  all  pleasure  for  me.  It  is  very  strange, 
how  irresistible  such  cold,  reserved  natures  prove,  when 
they  once  let  themselves  loose  and  soar  up  to  love !  Yes; 
I  actually  grew  sentimental  about  Tante  Octavie,  and 
used  to  find  myself  wishing  sometimes  that  she  might  be 
right  sick,  that  I  could  have  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  nurs 
ing  her  night  and  day. 

"She  is  a  grand  old  woman!"  I  would  say  to  Marie 
Merle  and  Tante  Cecile,  when  I  would  burst  out  in  my  en 
thusiastic  raptures  over  my  new  passion.  "  She  has  strong 
defects  of  character,  I  admit ;  and  I  know  I  used  to  call 
her  'she-dragon,'  and  all  manner  of  hard  names;  but  I 
shall  never  do  so  any  more ;  and  it  hurts  me  to  think  I 
ever  did  so,  for  I  really  and  truly  love  her.  How  true  is 
the  saying,  '  the  greater  the  trouble,  the  greater  the  lion,' 
for  see  how  grand  her  sorrow  has  made  her !" 

Yes,  this  gaunt  old  Norsewoman  was  fast  taking  the 
mother-place  in  my  heart,  and  answering  all  its  mother- 
want  and  mother-longing. 


296  '  COMPENSATION; 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

A   LETTER. 

WHO  has  not  watched  anxiously  for  the  post  hour  ? 
When  one  is  far  from  dear  friends,  with  oceans  and  moun 
tains  between,  the  arrival  of  that  messenger,  of  grief 

"  Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some— 
To  him  indifferent,  whether  grief  or  joy," 

is  a  subject  of  great  interest.  Many  times  since  my  ar 
rival  in  Peilz,  had  I  felt  this  anxiety ;  with  indefinable  ap 
prehensions,  I  had  often  waited  for  the  arrival  of  the  good 
man  Scharff,  our 

"  herald  of  the  noisy  world;" 

and  then  how  sick  at  heart  I  would  feel,  when  Dora  would 
hand  me  the  Journal  des  Debats,  unaccompanied  by  any 
letter  !  A  thousand  fears  would  spring  up,  of  sorrow  and 
may-be  of  death ;  then  I  would  count  over  the  days  since 
the  date  of  the  last  letters,  and  reread  them,  with  eyes  full 
of  tears  of  loving  longing,  recalling  the  faces  and  forms 
of  those  who  wrote  them,  and  their  words  of  tenderness, 
and  precious  hours  of  the  past,  spent  with  them  so  heed 
lessly;  and  then  think,  with  desolate  forebodings,  of  the  dis 
tance  between  us,  the  wide,  impassable  gulf  of  unavoidable 
separation  yawning  in  the  midst ;  and  the  bridge  which 
spanned  it  seemed,  in  the  gray  light  of  disappointment,  to 
be  the  one  leading  to  another  life.  But  when  le  brave  homme 
Scharff  did  bring  a  letter  for  me,  how  happy  the  sight  of 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  29t 

the  little  oblong  envelope  made  me !  The  direction  was 
regarded  with  the  same  loving  look  that  would  have  been 
given  in  times  past  to  the  dear  countenance  of  the  one  who 
wrote  it ;  the  handwriting  grew  into  an  individual  pres 
ence, — a  true  heart-greeting ;  the  little  cover  would  be  im 
patiently  torn  open,  and  I  would  rush  rapidly  through  the 
contents,  fairly  choking  with  my  haste ;  then,  after  finish 
ing  it,  go  through  it  a  second  time,  and  a  third ;  and  then 
go  off  quite  alone  in  the  woods,  where  neither  friend,  maid, 
nor  dog  could  hear  me,  or  see  my  emotion,  and  read  the 
dear  letter  out  aloud, — trying  to  imitate  the  voice  of  the 
darling  writer,  and  live  over  in  memory  the  sweet  hours 
of  the  past  belonging  to  her. 

One  morning  Dora  handed  me  the  Journal  des  Debats, 
and  from  its  paper  band  fell  three  letters  in  my  lap. 

"  Fanny  Fauvette,"  said  Marie,  "you  are  the  only  one 
among  us  that  receives  letters.  Once  in  a  while  Henzler 
writes  to  me,  and  may-be  my  cousin  Minna,  from  Breslau ; 
but  that  happens  only  once  in  a  year ;  and  yet,  you  uncon 
scionable  creature  !  if  a  month  passes  without  bringing 
you  at  least  two  or  three,  you  are  dissatisfied.  Now  you 
have  three,  cormorant,  at  one  swallow ;  pray,  do  not  'let 
me  hear  a  murmur  from  you,  if  Scharff's  tin  box  is  empty, 
so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  for  two  months  to  come." 

I  laughed,  and  handed  her  the  Journal,  which  I  saw 
contained  one  of  Berlioz's  excellent  articles,  and  begged 
her  to  let  that  silence  her  sauciness.  We  were  all  collected 
in  my  room  as  usual,  and  Helene  sat  in  the  rocking-chair, 
looking  very  fresh,  and  calm,  and  pretty,  tricotting  away 
industriously,  as  though  she  had  never  been  ill ;  a  sweet, 
gentle  languor  in  her  voice  and  movements,  was  all  that 
told  of  the  sorrowful  past ;  nothing  but  the  dark-hued  folds 
of  her  mother's  mourning  garb  was  present,  to  remind  us 
of  the  sad  visit  death  had  paid  to  that  house.  I  hastily 


298  COMPENSATION; 

looked  at  the  address  of  the  three  letters,  before  opening 
them,  to  see  who  they  were  from,  and,  as  I  did  so,  I  gave 
a  short  exclamation,  which  was  checked  half  uttered. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Marie,  dropping  her  Jour 
nal  ;  and  Helene  looked  at  me  with  a  gaze  of  sympathiz 
ing  inquiry. 

"No  unpleasant  or  disagreeable  news,  I  trust,  my 
child  ?"  said  Madame  Bouvreuil,  tenderly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  answered,  laughing  awkwardly  at  my 
thoughtlessness;  and  after  I  noticed  they  had  ceased 
looking  at  me,  I  slipped  one  of  the  letters,  unopened,  into 
my  pocket.  I  read  the  other  two,  and  read  the  Journal, 
and  then  resumed  my  embroidery ;  and  while  Marie  con 
tinued  hex  reading  aloud  of  the  last  unfinished  work  of  her 
favorite  Emile  Souvestre,  La  Derniere  Elape,  I 

"Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 

buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed; 

A  wreath  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers  that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay." 

But  I  did  not  touch  the  letter  in  my  pocket.  Strange,  to 
be  sure  !  As  it  was  not  directed  to  me,  however,  I  had  no 
right  to  open  it.  I  being  the  only  one,  as  Marie  said,  who 
received  letters,  Dora,  without  regarding  the  directions,  had 
slipped  them  into  the  band  of  the  Journal,  and  handed  them 
all  to  me. 

We  reached  the  last  chapter  penned  by  the  dying  author, 
where  the  last  words  seemed  written  as  a  consoling  farewell 
to  his  friends,  who  were  so  unconscious  of  their  approaching 
great  loss.  Marie  read,  with  touching  emphasis,  these 
words  of  Monsieur  Raymond  to  poor  young  Armand, — 

"Va,  je  te  benis:  que  Dieu  te  console!" 

and  closed  the  book,  leaving  the  peaceful,  fit  conclusion, 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  299 

written  by  his  son-in-law,  to  be  finished  on  the  following 
day. 

"We  all  talked  over  the  curious  management  of  the  little 
thread  of  a  romance,  running  like  a  mottled  purple  and  sil 
ver  thread  through  the  book;  and  the  mournful  reconcilia 
tion  of  the  husband  and  wife ;  talking  of  them  as  if  they 
were  real  living  beings,  and  speculating  upon  their  future 
prospects  of  happiness,  which  Madame  Bouvreuil  said  were 
much  more  to  be  relied  on  than  many  brilliant  commence 
ments  of  marriage.  I  did  not  dilate  on  the  subject,  as  I 
might  have  done  had  not  the  unopened  letter  lain  restlessly 
in  my  pocket.  Marie  noticed  that  I  was  preoccupied ;  then 
all  checked  the  remarks  rising  to  their  lips,  fearing,  doubt 
less,  that  I  had  received  some  perplexing  information  of 
which  I  was  not  ready  to  speak,  much  as  I  might  wish  their 
sympathy.  Marie  tied  on  her  hat,  lingeringly ;  and,  as  she 
kissed  me  good-by,  urged  me  to  go  home  with  her,  describ 
ing  a  delicious  afternoon  of  music  and  lounging, — affection 
ately  desiring  to  charm  off  the  supposed  annoyance.  Pro 
fessor  Bouvreuil's  voice  was  heard  down-stairs,  talking  to 
the  house-dog,  old  Turque  ;  and  Madame  Bouvreuil  folded 
up  her  sewing  to  go  down  and  prepare  some  savory  sauce, 
or  nice  pudding,  for  the  dinner.  After  Marie  left,  I  dis 
patched  Dora  off  with  Beau,  to  take  a  walk  in  the  beautiful 
noonday  sun,  around  the  old  fosse ;  and  at  last  Helene  and 
I  were  alone.  Then  I  got  up  from  my  seat,  walked  behind 
Helene's  chair,  and,  taking  the  unopened  letter  from  my 
pocket,  dropped  it  in  her  lap,  kissed  her  lovely  soft  cheek, 
and  slipped  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

Yes,  the  mysterious  letter  was  for  her,  and  had  a  variety 
of  mail  hieroglyphics  on  it,  making  it  look  like  one  of  Cham- 
pollion's  or  Layard's  Egyptian  and  Nineveh  pictures  ;  and 
it  came  from  Egypt,  too,  for  I  had  caught  sight  of  Alexan 
dria  amid  the  other  mail  stamps;  and  it  was,  as  I  had  sup- 


300  COMPENSATION; 

posed,  really  from  Kinnaird, — dear,  good,  true-loving  Kin- 
naird  !  Of  course  I  read  the  letter;  and  of  course  it  was, 
like  all  real  love-letters,  delicious.  He  had  heard  of  Octave's 
death,  and,  forgetting  his  resentment,  and  the  unkind  treat 
ment  he  had  received,  hastened  to  offer  his  consolation ; 
knowing,  for  his  own  frank,  loving  nature  told  him,  how 
acceptable  and  sweet  such  sympathy  would  be. 

"My  darling,"  he  wrote,  "no  one  can  blame  you  for 
reading  a  letter  from  me.  I  must  write  to  tell  you  how 
deeply  I  sorrow  with  you ;  how  I  yearn  to  be  beside  you, 
and  give  you  thatx  comfort  which  no  one  in  the  world,  I 
am  sure,  Helene,  can  so  well  give  as  I.  I  judge  you  by 
myself;  and  that  is  why  I  say  this,  my  own  pet  birdie. 
See !  how  the  old,  tender  words  rise  up,  for  my  heart  is 
full  of  them,  Helene. 

"  Poor  Madame  Eperveil !  how  keenly  she  must  feel 
this  blow  ;  more  than  any  of  the  rest  of  the  family,  even 
your  mother,  darling ;  for  Madame  Eperveil  loved  Octave 
so  blindly,  that  it  made  her  not  only  forgetful  of  others, 
but  unjust.  For  you,  and  for  her,  I  feel  the  most  sym 
pathy  ;  your  mother  has  you  still  left  to  comfort  her ; 
but  dear  Madame  Eperveil,  now  Octave  is  gone,  has 
no  one.  Good-by,  Helene  darling;  remember,  any  time 
in  the  future  you  have  only  to  write  me  one  word  to 
let  me  know  you  wish  for  me,  and  I  will  come  to  you 
instantly.  And  if  this  life  passes  without  that  sum 
mons,  my  own  one,  in  eternity  we  shall  meet ;  for  when 
I  die,  beloved,  if  it  is  half  a  century  from  now,  my  heart 
and  my  thoughts,  my  whole  being,  will  be  as  much 
yours,  and  only  yours,  as  when  we  parted  that  sad  day 
in  the  Hauteville  woods.  Your  own  Kinnaird  Graham." 

And  this  was  the  lover  we  had  dared  to  call  cold  and 
commonplace !  "  Helene,"  I  said,  "  let  me  show  this  letter 
to  Tante  Octavie." 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  301 

The  girl  looked  up  at  me,  startled  but  pleased ;  her 
look  was  assent ;  so  at  sunset  I  put  on  my  hat  and  capu 
chin,  and  walked,  with  Dora  and  Beau,  up  to  the  grounds 
of  Institution  Eperveil.  I  found  Tante  Octavie  out  in 
the  garden,  in  close  conclave  with  Henri.  "  Here  this 
thing,"  and  "There  that;"  and  "You  had  better  look  to 
this  bed,"  etc.  etc.;  both  talking  together,  with  that  flu 
ency  and  familiarity  so  peculiar  to  the  French  superior 
and  inferior;  during  which  conversation  neither  forgets 
his  or  her  proper  place.  Beau  sprang  off,  directly  he  saw 
Tante  Octavie,  and  ran  to  her,  jumping  around  her  as 
caressingly  as  he  used  to  scold  her  ;  he  remembered  her 
late  meat-offerings,  and  kind  words,  the  little  egotist !  and 
had  forgotten  his  old  enmities. 

"  Good  little  dog,"  said  the  old  lady,  receiving  his 
charming  little  attentions  graciously.  "  How  pretty  you 
are — a  great  deal  too  pretty!" 

"  Yes,"  I  thought,  "  you  are  both  alike,  dog  and  woman, 
in  one  thing :  irresistibly  charming,  when  you  deign  to 
let  us  love  you.  I  believe  in  my  heart,  your  growling 
ungraciousness  only  makes  your  softer  moods,  by  contrast, 
and  from  variety,  more  attractive." 

"  Well,  Darmstadter,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  the 
sturdy  shoulder  of  my  laughing,  happy  Dora,  "  descendant 
of  a  great  Saxon  warrior,  how  are  you  to-day? — and 
where  is  the  little  mistress  ?" 

Then,  seeing  me,  she  advanced  toward  me,  and,  making 
me  take  her  arm,  led  me  all  through  the  garden,  showing 
me  all  the  spring  improvements,  with  Henri's  assistance, 
who  was  only  too  happy,  the  sly  rogue,  to  be  near  my 
blushing  Dora,  After  that,  we  walked  together  down  to 
the  border  of  the  lake,  and  watched  the  brilliant  sunset, 
and  the  fine  rowing  of  the  students,  over  twenty  boats 
being  on  the  water;  a  real  boat  fleet,  whose  beautiful 

26 


302  COMPENSATION; 

sails  and  streamers,  with  various  devices,  and  the  grace 
ful  shapes  of  the  boats,  made  the  sight  a  very  picturesque 
one.  After  that,  we  went  to  the  house,  and  had  the  sofa 
wheeled  into  the  deep  balcony  window,  and  her  maid 
Victorine  brought  in 

"the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn," 

from  which  I  made  for  the  old  lady  her  tea ;  and  while 
we  sat  over 

"  the  cups  that  cheer  but  not  inebriate," 

we  watched  the  deepening  of  the  twilight,  and  the  bright 
ening  of  the  stars ;  and  then,  when  the  light  meal  was  re 
moved,  I  drew  a  foot-cushion  to  the  old  lady's  feet,  and 
while  her  large,  fair  hands  smoothed  down  my  hair  on 
my  temples,  and  rested  in  quiet  caresses  on  my  cheeks, 
she  talked  with  me  about  America,  and  my  girlhood,  and 
my  mother ;  for  Tante  Octavie  and  I  were  growing 
closer  and  closer  knit  together  daily, — Naomi  and  her 
Ruth! 

While  we  were  talking,  we  heard  Mr.  Merle's  voice,  and 
he,  with  Marie  and  Tante  Cecile,  entered  the  room.  So 
soon  as  I  heard  them,  I  hastily  drew  the  letter  from  my 
pocket,  and,  putting  it  in  her  hands,  I  said,  "  Madame 
Eperveil,  there  is  a  letter  Helene  received  to-day,  and 
wishes  you  to  read." 

The  next  day  Tante  Octavie  returned  the  letter  to 
Helene,  in  the  presence  of  all  of  us,  when  she  came  in  to 
pay  us  a  gracious  morning  visit,  saying,  as  she  did  so, 
"  My  child,  when  you  write  to  Mr.  Graham,  give  my 
kindest  regards  to  him  ;  and  tell  him,  when  he  is  through 
his  Egyptian  wanderings,  he  must  come  back  to  his  old 
friends  and  home  in  Peilz," 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  303 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THE    NEW    HEAD   MASTER. 

"  BROTHER,"  said  Madame  Eperveil,  one  Sunday,  after 
a  dinner  we  had  all  been  taking  with  her,  "  old  Mr.  Serin 
leaves  us  at  last.  When  the  school  closes,  the  end  of  June, 
he  will  bid  us  all  adieu,  and  go  to  his  son  in  Germany. 
He  has,  however,  provided  me  with  a  very  excellent  person 
in  his  place." 

The  professor  bowed  approvingly,  and  we  all  tried  to 
look  unconscious,  notwithstanding  the  memory  of  the  past 
stood  up  vividly  before  us. 

"  This  new  head  master  conies  very  highly  recommended 
to  me,"  continued  the  brave  old  lady ;  "  and  the  Messieurs 
Serin  speak  highly  of  him." 

"  Is  he  a  married  man,  Madame  Eperveil  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Merle,  wishing  to  put  on  a  show  of  facetiousness  ;  "  that 
is  a  subject  that  will  interest  the  young  ladies  of  Peilz." 

"  No,  not  married,  but  betrothed,  and  will  be  married 
in  the  autumn,"  answered  Madame  Eperveil,  smiling. 
"The  head  master  of  a  school,  if  young,  as  this  gentle 
man  is,  must  have  some  nice  wife  to  keep  his  eyes  and 
thoughts  busy  after  his  work  is  done,  in  order  to  guard 
him  from  going  daft  about  pretty  young  girls,  which 
would  play  the  mischief  with  his  usefulness  to  me.  His 
intended  wife  is  said  to  be  quite  charming ;  and,  from  what 
I  hear  of  her,  she  will  be  a  very  pleasant  member  of  our 
little  social  circle." 


304  COMPENSATION; 

"  You  have  not  told  us  his  name  yet,  Tante  Octavie," 
said  Marie. 

"  Nor  shall  I,"  said  the  old  lady,  hesitating  a  little  ;  "  I 
think  I  will  try  to  raise  your  curiosity ;  it  will  be  some 
thing  for  you  to  speculate  about." 

Then  she  changed  the  conversation,  and  we  all  hastened 
to  talk  of  other  things  ;  for  though  we  had  tried  to  be  un 
conscious,  and  even  affect  playfulness,  as  well  as  poor 
Tante  Octavie,  we  all  felt  not  only  awkwardly,  but  a  little 
melancholy. 

But,  though  silent  to  them  on  the  subject,  she  was  not 
to  her  little  Fanny  Fauvette.  One  sweet  June  evening, 
as  I  was  making  tea  for  the  old  lady,  and  she  was  making 
love  to  Beau  with  sponge-cake,  and  he  swearing  eternal 
fidelity  to  her,  with  wagging  tail  and  cunning,  winking 
eyes  started  clear  out  of  his  head  with  selfish  eagerness 
for  the  bonbon;  yes,  on  that  evening  she  told  me  all  her 
plans,  and  I  saw  that  the  old  lady  was  very  happy.  I 
longed  to  throw  my  arms  around  the  dear  old  iron  image 
and  ask  her  to  let  me  tie  on  her  shoes  for  evermore ;  but  I 
refrained,  for  I  was  afraid  of  provoking  those  old  claws  of 
contradiction  and  tyranny;  and  yet  I  was  growing  to  love 
the  brave  old  dame  so  dearly,  that  I  should  have  bowed, 
with  all  the  cowardice  of  human  love,  beneath  those  claws, 
as  I  did  often  to  my  naughty  little  egotistical  Beau's 
caprices. 

Weeks  rolled  around,  taking  from  us  the  sweet  blossomy 
June ;  and  the  fragrant  grape-flower  fell  off,  leaving  the 
little  green  balls  of  the  bunches  to  ripen  in  the  warm  July 
sun.  On  account  of  the  mourning  of  the  family,  there  was 
no  soiree  that  season.  The  first  day  of  July  had  always 
been  the  day  of  dismissal,  and  the  one  on  which  the  grades 
of  scholarship  were  awarded.  This  year  it  had  been  de 
ferred  until  the  tenth,  and  on  that  day  the  new  head  master 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE. 

was  to  be  presented  to  the  school,  previous  to  their  dis 
missal,  by  Mr.  Serin,  when  he  took  leave  of  his  old  pupils. 
On  the  ninth,  Mr.  Wilkins  (as  we  had  heard  was  his  name) 
was  to  arrive,  and  Madame  Eperveil  invited  us  to  take  tea 
with  her  on  that  afternoon,  and  help  her  receive  him. 
Madame  Bouvreuil,  Helene,  and  I  started  early,  so  as  to 
enjoy  the  sunset  from  the  boat-house  shed  belonging  to 
the  Institution,  which  was  on  the  lake  shore ;  and  Marie 
and  Tante  Cecile  were  to  meet  us  there.  While  we  were 
sitting,  quietly  talking,  Marie  came  up,  saying,  "  The  head 
master  has  come ;  he  is  an  ugly  little  man,  with  red  hair 
and  straw-colored  whiskers." 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?"  asked  Tante  Octavie,  coming,  un 
expectedly,  around  the  corner  of  the  boat-house. 

"Tante  Octavie!"  cried  Marie,  starting;  "how  you 
frighten  one !" 

"  Who  told  you  that  Mr.  Wilkins  was  an  ugly  little  man, 
with  red  hair  and  straw-colored  whiskers  ?"  persisted  Tante 
Octavie. 

"  Our  maid  Emilie,  who  saw  him  arrive,"  answered 
Marie,  laughing,  and  coloring. 

"Emilie  is  a  prying,  gossipy  maid ;  and  you  are  a  very 
undignified  young  lady  to  accept  information  from  such  a 
source." 

She  looked  very  gracious  and  smiling,  although  her 
words  sounded  harsh. 

"  But  come,"  she  continued,  putting  her  arm  kindly 
around  Marie's  waist,  "  let  us  all  go  up  to  tea,  and  I  will 
introduce  you,  mocking-bird,  to  this  red-headed  Mr.  Wil 
kins,  and  his  betrothed  bride,  who  has  been  kind  enough 
to  accept  my  invitation,  and  come  to  pay  me  a  visit." 

They  all  stared  at  this  piece  of  information,  but  not  a 
word  was  said  in  reply,  as  we  followed  Tante  Octavie  up 

26* 


306  CO  MP  ENS  A.  TION; 

to  the  grounds  of  the  Institution.  Tante  Octavie  stopped 
here  and  stopped  there,  and  made  us  admire  one  flower 
bed  and  then  another ;  and  then  insisted  upon  looking  at 
the  vineyard ;  and  she  made  Helene  walk  on  one  side  of 
her  and  me  on  the  other ;  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  go  into 
the  house,  wishing  to  give,  as  she  said,  the  young  lady 
time  to  rest,  and  prepare  herself  for  meeting  so  many 
strangers. 

The  last  red  rays  of  the  sun  were  dancing  on  the  lake, 
and  tipping  the  edges  of  some  slight  clouds  floating  over 
the  blue  sky,  when  we  entered  the  cheerful  salon.  A 
gentleman  stood  in  the  deep  window,  and,  as  he  advanced 
to  meet  us,  Marie  Merle  screamed  out  with  surprise,  while 
Helene  leaned  on  her  aunt's  arm,  trembling  violently. 

"Yoila,  mocking-bird!"  said  Tante  Octavie;  "this  is 
the  Mr.  Wilkins  with  red  hair;  and  here,"  she  said,  put 
ting  Helene's  hand  in  his,  "this  is  his  betrothed,  whom  I 
promised  to  present  to  you.  I  am  very  sure  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Graham  will  be  highly  valued  in  our  social  circle." 

Yes,  it  was  Kinnaird  Graham ;  and  Tante  Octavie  had 
written  to  him,  asking  his  forgiveness  for  her  injustice, 
and  begging  him  to  accept  the  head  mastership,  during 
Helene's  dangerous  illness.  Her  letter  he  received  weeks 
after  he  had  written  to  Helene.  We  were  all  very  happy. 
After  tea  we  walked  up  and  down  the  balcony,  and  Kiu- 
naird  talked  to  the  professor  and  Mr.  Serin  about  his 
Egyptian  travels,  while  Helene  and  Madame  Bouvreuil 
listened  with  a  gentle,  quiet  contentment,  that  told  how 
exquisitely  happy  they  felt.  Mr.  Merle  grew  playful, 
and,  coming  up  to  Tante  Octavie,  he  said :  "  It  is  very 
unjust,  Madame  Eperveil,  for  you  to  be  so  partial.  You 
find  a  handsome  husband  for  Helene,  and  neglect  all  the 
other  young  spinsters ;  now,  your  favorite  Fanny  Fau- 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  307 

vette,  for  instance,  I  should  have  supposed  you  would 
have  preferred  her  for  the  head  master's  wife." 

I  answered  back  some  merry  sauciness,  and  then  he 
walked,  with  Tante  Cecile  and  Marie,  up  the  balcony,  to 
look  at  the  moon  rising  over  the  Vaudois  mountains. 

"  Fanny  Fauvette,"  said  Madame  Eperveil,  half  musingly. 
I  turned,  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  in 
the  deep  window  arch,  and  I  fancied,  as  the  moonlight  stole 
in  through  the  leaves  of  the  woodbine,  and  played  over  her 
face  and  rich,  fair  hair,  that  she  looked  a  little  wan  and 
worn.  The  dear  old  lady !  she  had  endured  fierce  suffer 
ing  and  fierce  struggles  womanfully,  and  had  come  out  of 
the  moral  combat  gloriously  victorious.  "  The  greater  the 
trouble,  the  greater  the  lion  !"  This  fine  saying  came  to 
my  memory  as  I  looked  at  her,  and  saw  its  verification  in 
her.  My  whole  being  pulsated  to  bow  down  before  her, 
and  say,  "  Let  me  be  thy  handmaiden,  mother  !"  "  Fanny 
Fauvette,"  she  repeated,  and,  putting  her  arm  about  me, 
she  drew  me  down  close  to  her.  I  knelt  on  the  foot- 
cushion  at  her  feet,  and  looked  up  at  her ;  we  were  quite 
alone  in  the  window  embrasure.  "  No,  child,"  she  con 
tinued,  looking  earnestly  down  into  my  face,  which  she 
held  between  her  large,  white  hands.  "  No,  child ;  I 
should  feel  very  sad  and  lonely  if  you  were  to  marry. 
See,  I  am  so  naturally  selfish,  that  I  cannot  help,  because 
I  love  you  so  fondly,  striving  to  monopolize  you.  I  would 
keep  you  all  for  myself;"  and  she  tried  to  smile  playfully, 
but  her  mouth  quivered,  and  broke  the  smile. 

"  Never  fear,  Tante  Octavie,"  I  answered,  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  with  the  deep  love  I  felt,  "  I  shall  never  marry." 

"  And  will  you  be  my  child?"  asked  the  gaunt,  strong 
old  woman,  trembling  with  emotion. 

"  I  will,  so  help  me  God !"  I  replied,  solemnly ;  and  in 


308  COMPENSA  TION; 

the  same  instant  I  lay  in  Tante  Octavie's  arms,  and  was 
clasped  tight  to  her  breast,  feeling,  at  last,  at  home,  and 
no  longer  alone  in  life. 

She  kissed  me  fervently  again  and  again,  and  a  large, 
round  tear,  a  second  tear,  rolled  down  her  cheek,  hallow 
ing  the  contract;  and  this  is  how  I  came  to  be  Tante 
Octavie's  daughter. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  3Q9 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

MARIE'S  COMPENSATION. 

HELENE  and  Kinnaird  Graham  were  married  a  few  weeks 
after,  in  order  that  they  might  have  time  to  make  a  quiet 
bridal  tour  to  the  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons,  before  the 
close  of  the  vacation.  At  the  wedding,  Madame  Eper- 
veil  insisted  upon  the  family's  laying  aside  their  mourning. 
Marie  Merle  and  I  were  bridesmaids,  and  the  amiable, 
blushing  young  Gardner,  and  Serin,  Jr.,  were  groomsmen. 
It  was  a  quiet,  happy  wedding ;  the  ceremony  was  per 
formed  early  in  the  day ;  and  Tante  Octavie  gave  a  dinner, 
under  the  trees,  to  all  the  dependents  of  the  Institution ; 
while  the  friends  of  the  family  called  in  the  afternoon  and 
evening,  to  pay  their  respects  and  congratulations  to  the 
newly  wredded  pair.  The  day  after  the  wedding,  they  left, 
with  Professor  and  Madame  Bouvreuil,  to  make  their  little 
wedding  journey. 

In  the  autumn,  after  Kinnaird  had  taken  his  place  as  head 
master,  Tante  Octavie  invited  Marie  and  me  to  accompany 
her  on  a  visit  to  Paris.  We  spent  six  weeks  in  that  charm 
ing  city,  visiting  all  the  places  made  familiar  to  us  by  books. 
We  had  all  visited  Paris  before;  but,  Marie  and  I  agreed, 
never  so  pleasantly.  Tante  Octavie,  so  filled  with  informa 
tion,  with  exact  and  available  knowledge  of  the  events  and 
characters  of  history,  was  an  admirable  cicerone  for  two 
such  w^omen  as  Marie  and  me.  We  showed  our  apprecia 
tion  of  her  qualities  so  enthusiastically,  that  the  old  lady  be- 


310  COMPENSATION; 

V 

came  enchanted  with  her  new  vocation,  and  made  a  resolu 
tion  of  visiting  Paris  with  us  every  spring,  until  we  should 
know  all  the  points  of  interest — buildings,  galleries,  and  en 
virons — fully ;  and  that  resolution,  I  am  happy  to  say,  the 
dear  old  lady  has  had  health  and  strength  to  perform. 

Marie's  visit  to  Paris,  in  the  autumn  I  speak  of,  had  a 
great  influence  on  her  future  life  as  an  artist.  That  visit  laid 
the  foundation  of  a  fame  which  is  now  European.  At  her 
first  performance  before  the  great  artist-critics  of  Paris,  their 
approval  of,  and  enthusiastic  admiration  for  her  execution 
and  genius,  were  unanimous.  Henzler  happened  to  be  in 
Paris  with  his  company  at  the  time,  and  he  invited  her  to 
his  hall,  to  play  with  them  some  compositions  of  Mozart, 
Beethoven,  Chopin,  and  others,  which  she  had  wished  so 
often  to  execute  with  an  orchestra.  We  went  several  times, 
and  Marie  played  without  embarrassment,  for  there  was  no 
audience,  save,  once  in  awhile,  a  chance  friend  or  two  who 
might  drop  in.  One  morning  we  were  there,  and  Marie 
played  various  things,  among  them  the  "  Concert  Stuck"  of 
Weber,  and  a  Fantaisie  of  R.  Schumann,  of  whose  music 
Henzler  was  an  ardent  admirer.  As  it  was  the  first  time  I 
had  heard  this  composition,  it  sounded  confused  to  my  ears. 
The  wild,  bold  thoughts  of  such  an  artist-poet  as  Schumann 
are  difficult  to  comprehend  at  first  sight  and  hearing;  they 
must  be  studied  closely;  and  even  then,  if  the  mind  and 
capability  of  appreciation  are  not  happily  corresponding  in 
grandeur,  the  great  poetic  thoughts  may  remain  unknown. 

Some  gentlemen  entered  after  they  had  finished  this  sym 
phony,  and  Henzler  seemed  occupied  in  conversation  on 
some  business,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Marie  re 
mained  at  the  piano,  to  look  over  some  manuscripts  Henzler 
had  given  her ;  some  new  compositions  of  his  that  he  wished 
her  to  examine,  and  give  him 'some  suggestions  and  criti 
cisms  upon.  Tante  Octavie  had  left  us,  to  attend  to  some 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  313 

by  all  Europe,  as  the  greatest  instrumental  composer  the 
world  has  ever  known ;  and  commemorative  of  this  heart 
episode  in  his  life,  are  left  three  passionate  love-letters,  and 
this  senate,  called  the  Moonlight  Sonate,  because  Rellstab 
compared  it  to  a  bark  visiting  the  savage  sites  of  the  Lake 
of  the  Four  Cantons  in  Switzerland,  by  moonlight. 

Berlioz,  in  his  Voyage  Musicale,  p.  362,  gives  a  fine  de 
scription  of  this  senate,  and  of  Liszt's  manner  of  playing 
it.  In  the  opening  passage  of  this  description,  he  says : 
"  There  is  a  work  of  Beethoven,  known  by  the  name  of  the 
'Senate  in  C  sharp  minor,'  the  adagio  of  which  is  one  of 
those  poetical  conceptions  that  human  language  does  not 
know  how  to  express.  The  means  of  action  are  very 
simple :  the  left  hand  stretches  out  full  chords,  of  a  char 
acter  solemnly  sad,  and  the  duration  of  which  permits  the 
vibrations  of  the  piano  to  extend  themselves  gradually 
ov,er  each  one  of  them.  Above,  the  inferior  fingers  of  the 
right  hand  play,  in  arpeggio,  a  design  of  obstinate  har 
mony,  the  form  of  which  scarcely  varies,  from  the  first 
measure  to  the  last ;  while  from  the  other  fingers  is  heard 
a  sort  of  lamentation,  the  efflorescence,  melodique, — the 
melodic  blossoming  of  this  sombre  harmony." 

No  one  living  can  play  this  sonate  equal  to  Liszt. 
"  Liszt,"  says  Berlioz,  "  hurries  and  slackens  the  measure, 
troubling  thus,  by  passionate  accents,  the  calm  of  this  sad 
ness,  making  the  thunder  rumble  in  this  cloudless  heaven, 
darkened  only  by  the  departure  of  the  sun." 

De  Lenz,  in  his  admirable  analysis  of  this  sonate,  says 
of  this  passage  :  "  The  melodic  design  of  the  adagio  is  con 
fided  to  the  G  sharp, — the  octave  of  the  G  sharp  of  the 
harmony  ;  a  group  of  a  dotted  crotchet,  G  sharp,  followed 
by  a  double  crotchet,  leads  to  what  Berlioz  so  fitly  calls  the 
'efflorescence  melodique ;'  a  song  penetrating  as  a  perfume 
proceeding  by  minims, — large  notes,  whose  heads  hang 

27 


314  COMPENSATION; 

like  flower-chalices,  heavy  with  the  pure  fresh  dew  poured 
into  them  by  the  dreamy  gray-vested  hours  of  a  balmy 
quiet  night.  One  feels  that  this  ineffable  opening  ought 
to  be  independent  of  arpeggios,  that  it  ought  to  float  freely 
over  the  whole  as  a  horn  soars  over  a  subdued,  discreet 
accompaniment.  Now,  there  is  only  the  little  finger  of  the 
right  hand  to  articulate  this  plaint,  and  this  poor  finger  is 
sorry  enough  to  carry  the  burden,  which  is  the  more  diffi 
cult,  because  the  other  fingers  of  the  hand  are  bent  over 
the  arpeggios — a  circumstance  which  takes  away  from  the 
little  finger  much  of  the  independence  it  ought  to  possess. 
It  happens  then,  at  the  moment  when  the  dotted  note 
should  vibrate,  as  it  ought,  to  phrase  the  melody,  the 
thumb  points  from  its  side,  as  if  by  pure  fraternal  love  for 
the  little  finger,  to  the  G  of  the  arpege,  and  doubles  in  the 
medium  the  entrance  of  this  principal  idea,  thus,  as  you 
may  well  believe,  injuring  the  effect  of  the  song. 

"  A  means  of  escaping  this  difficulty  would  be  to  divide 
the  three  Gs  sharp,  and  the  entrees  of  the  same  nature, 
between  the  third  and  little  fingers,  as  often  as  possible ; 
but  this  cannot  always  be  done  ;  and,  moreover,  this  means 
presents  the  danger  of  spreading  discord  in  this  household 
of  Gs.  Stop  raising  the  hand,  spread  it  out  like  a  fan  on 
the  key-board  of  the  piano,  and  let  the  little  finger  fall  as 
high  as  it  can.  Liszt  made  me  observe  this  difficulty,  in 
1828.  Youth  is  always  right,  so,  of  course,  I  objected  to 
his  suggestion,  not  being  able  to  believe  that  the  soi-disant 
excellent  masters  of  the  piano  would  allow  me  to  do  what 
took,  in  my  eyes,  the  proportions  of  a  gross  musical  sin. 
I  thought  I  could  cheat  him  by  neglecting,  apparently,  to 
adopt  it.  Liszt  said  nothing ;  but  at  the  approaching  com 
mencement  of  the  phrase  where  the  octave  of  the  accom 
paniment  sounded,  he  seized  my  thumb  as  one  would  the 
foot  of  a  May-bug,  and,  grasping  it  as  in  a  vice,  the  G  sharp 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  315 

sounded  out  free  and  clear  on  his  '  Erard,'  like  the  silvery- 
veiled,  sad  note  of  a  horn.  '  There,'  said  Liszt,  quietly 
and  resolutely,  '  that  is  the  way  you  ought  to  hold  your 
thumb.'  " 

While  I  was  reading  over  this  sonate,  and  also  Berlioz 
and  De  Lenz's  descriptions  and  analyses  of  the  various 
passages,  Henzlcr  came  up  to  me.  "  B.  is  here,"  he  said, 
"and  also  quite  a  little  knot  of* critics.  One  by  one  they 
have  heard  Marie,  without  her  knowing  it,  and  by  their 
praises  of  her  peculiar  poetical  expression,  have  roused 
B.'s  curiosity;  so  he  has  come  this  morning  to  judge  for 
himself.  Make  her  play  a  solo,  as  if  for  you  alone.  She 
is  unconscious  of  her  audience.  I  told  her  just  now,  when 
I  excused  myself  to  her,  that  they  were  some  persons  who 
had  called  to  see  me  on  business." 

I  was  pleased  with  Heuzler's  delicate  forethought,  for  I 
knew  well  enough  if  Marie  played  with  the  consciousness 
of  B.'s  presence,  she  would  be  so  nervous  she  would  not 
do  herself  justice.  This  sonate,  in  C  sharp  minor,  she 
played  remarkably  well ;  she  used  the  Liszt  fingering ; 
and  her  Chopin-like  expression,  her  own  poetic  conception 
of  the  composition,  made  her  execution  of  this  sonate — 
which  Berlioz  says  he  does  not  believe  six  living  pianists 
can  play  properly — almost  faultless,  to  my  ears ;  there 
fore,  I  immediately  selected  this  as  the  solo  for  her  to 
play  before  the  celebrated  critic.  I  stepped  up  to  the 
piano,  carrying  Schindler's  Biography  and  the  volume  of 
senates  in  my  hands.  I  made  her  read  to  me  from  the 
German  the  passages  from  the  love-letters  I  have  quoted, 
commencing  with,  "  Mein  engel,  mein  alles,  mein  leben!" 
Then  we  dwelt  tenderly  on  this  episode  in  the  life  of  the 
Dante-like  musician.  "  Play  the  sonate  for  me,"  I  said, 
placing  the  music  on  the  stand  before  her. 

Her  large  brown  eyes  were  already  dilating  with  feel- 


316  COMPENSATION; 

ing,  showing  that  the  whole  stream  of  her  thoughts  flowed 
in  the  golden  channel  of  poesy  which  is  requisite  for  the 
proper  expression  of  this  sonate.  She  commenced  without 
any  hesitation.  A  curtain  of  Tyrian  dye  and  golden  weft 
seemed  to  rise,  as  she  opened  the  adagio,  slowly  enough 
to  show  its  brilliant  light  and  solemn  hues.  Then  was 
seen  the  tomb  of  buried  hopes,  the  grave  of  love  ;  but  as 
the  chord  of  E  major  sounded,  one  heard  the  rustling  of 
flowers,  and  felt  the  fragrance  of  their  sweet  breath. 
Though  bitter  tears  might  be  shed  over  the  tomb,  though 
the  heart  might  be  almost  crushed  with  the  weary  weight 
of  a  lonely  life,  the  grand  solemn  chords  of  the  base  spoke 
of  courageous  self-reliance,  of  the  strength  and  fortitude 
of  a  truly  great  heart.  The  treble  told  its  lamentations  in 
passionate  accents ;  but  no  human  consolation  can  be  ac 
cepted,  and  the  deep,  slow  base  repeats  this  to  the  treble ; 
not  even  human  sympathy;  the  grief  must  be  borne  in 
silence  and  alone.  It  is  a  sadness  without  limit,  without 
remedy;  the  abyss  of  separation  can  never  be  bridged, — 
a  raging  torrent  rolls  between.  The  soul  clambers  with 
patient  firmness  up  the  painful  ascent,  without  one  con 
soling  friend,  and  seeks  the  solitude  of  its  sorrow,  finding 
a  proud  content  in  its  own  self-support,  its  own  heroic 
courage. 

Liszt  has  named  the  second  morceau  of  this  sonate  "  a 
flower  between  two  abysses."  One  day  De  Lenz  played 
this  passage  before  Liszt,  in  ^a  light  manner,  as  if  it  was 
only  a  small  difficulty.  "That  is  easy,  is  it  not?"  said 
Liszt,  coolly.  De  Lenz,  with  all  the  courage  of  eighteen, 
replied  pertly,  "  Yes."  "  How!"  cried  Liszt,  "  I  say  NO  ! 
It  is  a  passage  over  which  an  artist  can  spend  his  life." 

While  Marie  played  it,  B.  approached  the  piano,  and  I 
felt  bewildered  as  I  looked  at'the  great  critic;  but  the  ex 
pression  of  his  face — the  absorbed  look,  the  surprise,  lost 


OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE.  3 If 

in  gratification,  which  I  read  in  it — made  me  so  happy  that 
I  almost  sobbed  with  pleasure.  He  leaned  softly  forward, 
and  watched  her  closely  as  she  commenced  the  second  part 
of  the  trio,  where  she  used  Liszt's  fingering.  The  march 
of  the  base  has  to  be  bound  in  the  manner  of  two  violon 
cellos.  She  took,  according  to  Liszt,  the  first  chord,  D 
natural,  A  flat,  with  the  little  finger  and  first  of  the  left 
hand;  the  second  chord,  D  flat  and  G,  with  the  third 
finger  and  thumb ;  the  third  chord,  C  and  G  flat,  with  the 
little  finger  and  first ;  the  fourth  chord,  B  natural  and  F, 
with  the  third  finger  and  thumb,  thus  binding  exquisitely 
this  collection  of  chords. 

The  finale  was  like  the  burning  waves  of  lava  flowing 
from  Vesuvius ;  the  flame  darts  up  from  the  summit  of 
this  glorious  mountain  sonate ;  the  thunderous  explosion 
sounds ;  then  there  is  a  halt ;  and  then  pours  from  the 
volcanic  breast  of  the  poet  all  the  solitary  moan  over  the 
bitter  absinthe  draught  contained  in  his  dark  goblet  of  life. 

After  she  had  finished  the  last  measure  of  the  sonate, 
her  hands  rested  on  the  keys  of  the  piano,  and  she  sat  in 
sweet  but  solemn  dreaminess,  looking  apparently  at  the 
music,  but,  in  reality,  far  off  into  a  vague  and  misty  future 
she  dreaded  to  call  her  own.  She  was  recalled  to  a  con 
sciousness  of  our  presence,  by  a  burst  of  applause  from  the 
crowd  of  musicians  and  artists  who  had  assembled  behind 
B.  Henzler  immediately  stepped  up  and  presented  B.  to 
her.  Her  look  of  surprise,  her  air  of  reverence  and  maiden 
modesty,  was  so  beautiful  that  B.  was  evidently  touched 
with  it.  The  few  words  of  hearty  praise  he  gave  her, 
made  Marie  almost  sob  with  emotion.  She  sat  down  on 
the  chair,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  B.,  taking  her  little  frail 
hand  kindly  in  both  of  his,  "  you  are  an  artist  and  a  poet ; 
you  not  only  execute  well,  but  you  show  your  poetic, 

2?* 


318  COMPENSATION; 

creative  powers,  in  the  exquisite  expression  you  give  to 
the  music." 

This  was  the  commencement  of  future  triumphs ;  the 
Swiss  pastor's  daughter  henceforth  owned  the  musical 
world  for  her  home,  and  became  a  compeer  of  those  great 
women,  Wieck  and  Pleyel,  whose  fame  she  had  looked  out 
on,  as  one  looks  up  at  a  brilliant  star,  without  dreaming 
of  ever  possessing  such  a  glory. 

And  this  was  Marie's  compensation.  God  had  denied 
her  wife  and  mother  duty  and  love,  but  he  gave  her  the 
great  world  of  the  Infinite  to  soar  in, — the  command  of  the 
sublime  tone-tongue,  and  the  fame  of  a  true  artist-poet. 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  319. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

* 

HANGING   ENDS. 

I  HAVE  not  much  more  to  say,  even  of  Tante  Octavie 
and  her  little  daughter. 

"  Born  to  me  in  my  old  age,"  she  says  of  me,  with  a 
mixture  of  solemnity  and  playfulness  that  is  very  touching 
in  the  dear  old  lady. 

I  went  to  live  with  Tante  Octavie  soon  after  our  sweet 
troth-plight — Dora,  Beau,  and  I,  the  whole  little. trio. 
Dora  I  had  to  yield  up  to  Henri  a  few  months  after,  but 
she  is  only  the  distance  of  the  left  avenue  from  me,  where 
the  pretty  cottage  of  the  gardener  stands.  I  can  see  its 
peaked  roof  from  my  window  now.  A  nice,  tidy  little 
cousin  of  Yictorine  took  her  place  with  me,  whom  Beau, 
for  a  long  while,  ruled  tyrannically,  running  off  whenever 
he  could  to  Dora's  cottage,  and  frightening  the  poor  child 
half  out  of  her  wits,  making  her  think  he  was  lost  or  killed. 
Tante  Octavie  gave  me  a  comfortable  suite  of  rooms  in  her 
fine  large  house,  saying,  "  Child,  thy  Naomi  will  not  be 
too  selfish.  See,  thou  canst  be  alone  whenever  it  pleases 
thy  independent  little  ladyship  so  to  be." 

But  I  do  not  choose  to  be  alone ;  I  choose  to  wait  on 
and  live  evermore  with  my  mistress-mother.  Some  years 
have  rolled  around.  Helene  and  Graham  have  taken  the 
entire  charge  of  the  college,  and  it  is  now  seeing  its  bright 
est  days.  Tante  Octavie  gives  advice  at  times,  but  has 
resigned  gracefully  the  control  to  these  younger  and  capa> 


320  COMPENSATION; 

ble  hands.  She  is  beginning  to  look  a  little  bent,  dear  old 
lady!  There  she  stands,  as  I  write,  talking  to  Henri 
about  that  flower-bed  beneath  my  window.  Brave  old 
woman !  Her  fine  high  brow  is  covered  with  silver 
threads, 

"Those  blossoms  of  the  grave;" 

and,  as  I  look  at  them,  and  repeat  this  line  from  the  old 
ballad,  my  heart  grows  very  full  at  the  thought  of  her 
passing  away  from  us. 

Tante  Octavie's  age  is  very  golden ;  she  is  gentle  and 
gracious  ;  all  the  old  harshness  and  tyranny  of  her  nature 
lie  buried  in  poor  Octave's  grave  !  She  gives  and  receives 
tender  caresses;  and  loves  well,  at  nightfall,  to  rest  on  that 
couch  in  the  deep  window,  and  let  me,  her  daughter, 
smooth  the  silver  locks  from  off  her  broad,  high  temples, 
and  rest  our  loving  cheeks  together ;  while,  in  looking  at 
the  setting  sun  and  rising  moon,  we  dwell  charitably  and 
lovingly  on  our  higher  hopes  and  faith.  The  womanly 
author  of  "  John  Halifax"  says,  "  to  love"  is  the  verb  we 
are  most  prone  to  conjugate  in  youth;  but  that  we  dis 
cover,  after  awhile,  that  it  is  by  no  means  the  sole  verb  in 
the  grammar  of  life.  But  many  of  us,  like  Tante  Octavie, 
do  not  learn  to  conjugate  that  blessed  verb  until  late  in 
life.  We  go  through  all  the  inflections  of  "to  do"  and  "  to 
be"  conscientiously  and  painfully ;  and  sometimes  it  is  not 
until  God  teaches  us  the  stern  conjugation  of  "to  suffer," 
that  we  learn  the  sweet  knowledge  of  this  truest  and  best 
"  word." 

I  have  never  finished  my  novel,  and  fancy  I  never  shall. 
I  have  only  arrived  half-way  in  it,  at  the  second  marriage 
of  my  heroine  with  her  lover-husband,  Philibert  of  Savoy. 
Two  large  volumes  of  MSS.,  bound  in  superb  style,  look 
down  on  me  from  a  conspicuous  place  in  Tante  Octavie's 
library.  She  values  them,  and  I  am  content  with  that 


OR,  ALWAYS  A   FUTURE.  321 

fame;  I  wish  for  no  other.  I  have  no  longer  the  sorrowful 
need  that  pressed  in  on  me  when  I  commenced  it.  At  the 
sad  struggling  period  of  my  life,  when  I  first  came  to  Peilz, 
I  was  suffering  from  the  bitterest  kind  of  spiritual  poverty 
— a  lonely  heart ;  that  need  has  gone  by,  and  I  am  now 
"  passing  rich"  in  that  heart-wealth,  home  love. 

I  hold  with  that  wise,  solemn,  good  man,  Southey,  that 
literature  is  not  properly  the  business  of  a  woman's  life ; 
and  where  she  is  so  blessed  as  to  have  her  true  duties  of 
home-life  to  occupy  her,  she  has  not  only  no  time,  but  no 
need,  for  the  constant  attention  it  requires.  Only  sorrow 
and  solitude,  or  necessity,  should  make  a  woman  depend 
upon  her  intellect  for  resource  and  occupation.  Her  true 
sphere  is  home-life,  and  in  the  exercise  and  development  of 
that  part  of  her  nature  which  relates  to  her  heart  rather 
than  to  her  intellect ;  and,  when  needy  circumstances  or 
marvelously  brilliant  genius  drive  her  out  of  this  life,  it  is 
a  sad  thing,  no  matter  what  golden  meed  of  fame  she  may 
reap.  A  great  and  good  woman,  whose  fame  and  genius 
and  excellence  seem  equal,  has  made  this  solemn  confes 
sion: 

"Oh,  my  God! 

Thou  hast  knowledge,  only  Thou; 
How  dreary  'tis  for  women  to  sit  still, 
On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires, 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off." 

Thanks  to  Tante  Octavie  and  "  our  sweet  family,"  my 
winter  nights  are  not,  and  never  will  be  solitary.  And  still 
greater  thanks  to  God  that  he  did  not  visit  me  with  the 
need,  or  bestow  on  me  those  "  gracious  gifts  of  genius" 
which  might  have  prompted  or  tempted  me  to  seek  my 
compensation  in  other  pursuits  than  the  sweet,  quiet  ones 
of  home.  Not  wife  nor  mother  love,  it  is  true,  is  mine ; 
but  friend  and  daughter  love  has  been  poured  out  on  my 
heart  "in  perfect  purple  fullness;"  and,  in  the  autumn  of 


322      COMPENSATION;    OR,  ALWAYS  A  FUTURE. 

my  years,  to  know  that  I  am  loved,  and  needed  by  those 
I  love,  will  give  me  greater  happiness  than  the  knowledge 

"  Of  nations  praising  me  far  off." 

Professor  and  Madame  Bouvreuil  are  also  happy,  quiet, 
and  contented;  "begirt  with  growing  infancy,"  I  whisper 
to  myself,  as  I  see  their  pretty  grandchildren  playing 
around  them.  Mr.  Merle  and  gentle  Tante  Cecile  rejoice, 
with  modest  and  grateful  pride,  over  our  dear  Marie's  won 
drous  fame,  and  luckily  do  not  notice  the  calm  solemnity 
that  creeps  apace,  year  by  year,  over  her,  as  the  laurel 
leaves  bud  around  her  beautiful  Sappho  brow. 

And  now,  I  am  through.  I  have  no  tragedy  to  relate ; 
no  horrid  event  to  chronicle,  except,  if  I  do  not  close  my 
recital  soon,  I  may  have  to  write  poor  dear  old  Beau's  epi 
taph.  Yes,  Beau  is  old,  and,  like  Methuselah,  he  has  out 
lived  even  the  age,  not  of  men,  but  of  very  venerable  dogs. 
There  he  lies,  on  his  scarlet  cushion — Tante  Octavie's  last 
birthday  present  to  him ;  poor  fellow !  looking  down  at 
the  old  lady  sagely,  as  if  he  could  tell  her,  if  he  chose, 
something  about  those  flowers.  And  then  he  gazes  with 
a  solemn  air  over  at  the  old  Savoy  Alps,  behind  which  the 
sun  is  slowly  sinking,  and  he  snuffs  faintly  the  soft,  spring 
west  wind.  He  is  very  old,  and  silver  hairs  are  plentifully 
sprinkled  in  those  long  ears  once  so  famous  for  their  "  ra 
ven  silken  inches ;"  but,  like  Tante  Octavie's,  his  old  age 
is  golden  and  amiable.  He  wags  his  tail,  and  puts  out 
his  paw  for  a  caress.  Yes,  dog,  I  will  stop  and  come  to 
you ;  so,  reader,  Beau  and  I  bid  you  good-by. 


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